


Wasting the Dawn

by Anonymous



Series: My Immortal [2]
Category: The Hobbit (Jackson Movies), The Hobbit - All Media Types, The Hobbit - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: Anal Sex, Asphyxiation, Banter, Bard visits Mirkwood, Blow Jobs, Breathplay, Chinese translation available - link given in the front notes, Consensual Kink, Dining, Elf/Human Relationship(s), Explicit Sexual Content, Fluff, Interracial By Fantasy Standards, M/M, Original Universe, Porn With Plot, Porn with Feelings, Reunions, Rough Sex, Separations, Snark, Snow, Tension, Unresolved Romantic Tension, Winter, Woodland Realm, snowflakes
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-01-09
Updated: 2016-02-06
Packaged: 2018-03-06 08:51:35
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 10
Words: 42,584
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3128546
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>**Sequel to<a href="http://archiveofourown.org/works/2797367/chapters/6279449"> 'Of Darkened Eves</a>**<br/>~~<br/>It was some days after the funeral for the fallen dwarves that Thranduil had come to him, announcing “Tomorrow my remaining men and I will depart, returning to Greenwood the Great.” Something between them comes to pass in this night that Bard has never expected to happen, that turns his word upside down.</p><p> <b>This is their story from the last night before Thranduil leaves Dale after The Battle of the Five Armies, how they cope with the loss of the other - and how they meet in Thranduil's Halls again once the snow has melted. </b></p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> **Neither the elves nor the humans are mine, they are Tolkien's and PJs, I just love to play with them - no money is made from this.**
> 
>  **Chinese Translation available:** [*click*](http://173.255.216.198/allcp.net/forum.php?mod=viewthread&tid=27144&page=1#pid1727044)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> **for 'Of Darkened Eves'[ *click*](http://archiveofourown.org/works/2797367/chapters/6279449).**

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I have to admit that this lovely fanart was HIGHLY inspiring for the first chapter: http://angstyourwayin.tumblr.com/post/106759145159/i-cant-seem-to-find-any-regrets-anywhere-none-at

**Wasting the Dawn – Chapter 01**

**~~**

Darkness had long descended over the snow-covered ruins of Dale, painting the remaining snow-walls of the city into a mysteriously glooming of burning fires and the harshness ice; not soon after the last rays of day had disappeared from the horizon, snowflakes began to swirl slowly through the air, catching themselves in the dark strands of his hair, settling down on his woolen coat. There was a softness in their touches when they brushed against his skin, melting away no second later than they came into contact with his face.

With a smile, Bard remembered, when he walked through the almost deserted streets of the city which was now rightful his own it was exactly how it was, it was nearly identical when he had been summoned to the Elvenking’s tent not knowing for what purpose his presence was required on the night before Erebor would fall.

This time, however, there was no haste in his movements and for long moments he allowed his gaze to wander over the beauty that the city in the shadows of the Lonely Mountain resembled, a city that would soon be rebuilt, and prosper to former wealth, trade with the surrounding Realms assured.

Involuntary, Bard’s mind recalled everything in such rich details that the mere thought still made his blood freeze in his veins.

 

**~~**

Aye – the elf’s words had proven correct, Bard remembered as he resumed his walking almost carefully.

_‘Erebor would fall’_ Thranduil had promised countless times, meaning it would fall by their united forces, even more so when the Arkenstone was revealed by a little, innocent Hobbit that had stolen the precious stone right away under Thorin’s nose. The tidings however had been bad and many elves, men and dwarves had lost their precious life to the evil that has risen secretly in the Darkness of the World again. With the accursed mountain and its treasure hoard, the stubborn Dwarven Prince and his kin fell into ashes, their bodies torn apart by foul and dark creatures that had been long forgotten, disappeared from the sight of all.

They had fought side at side together, have seen their friends and allies fallen to the dreadful creatures of Sauron – and have survived the final battle that would enter the history books as the Battle of the Five Armies, the battle when dwarves, men, elves and beasts have fought united against the spawn of Sauron. Victorious had been their course at the end, the gold flowed freely through their hands but no gold could ever compensate the loss, the grief that rushed through their hearts and minds, leaving inerasable scars behind. Great losses were to bewail among Thranduil’s army, great were the losses among the People of Laketown and countless dwarves had fallen to - but there was something else that the Elvenking was nearly incapable to speak of, multiplying the grief that slowly poisoned his heart.

At first, Bard had dismissed the very thought as simply ridiculous, but soon they have found comfort in each other’s arms, sharing their sorrows and tears in brotherly manner, not thinking of the divine encounter that had happened between them the night before Erebor had fallen, the night they had lost themselves in the foolish throes of passion. Nay, it seemed to be entirely out of place for both of them, not the slightest spark of desire rushed through them when they looked at each other, embracing each other solely to comfort the other. Bard had never thought to see the proud and imperious Elvenking tremble like leaf in the wind, shaking with sorrow, unshed tears watering his blue eyes - just like in that very night when the Elvenking had shared his greatest worries with him. Where others would have seen a weakness in Thranduil’s behavior – Bard could only see strength, offering the Elvenking comfort whenever he thought it was needed.

There was a blind understanding between them – an understanding that, at times, nearly took the man’s breath away, feeling as if they knew each other for a life time when it only have been troublesome days in the aftermath of war. But maybe the horrors of war was indeed what connected them? Bard had often thought to himself in silence when he held the elf close against his aching body, always wondering if Thranduil would feel the same.

**~~**

It was some days after the funeral for the fallen dwarves that Thranduil had come to him, saying “Tomorrow my remaining men and I will depart, returning to Greenwood the Great.” Was there a sadness in the Elvenking’s voice? Bard could it not believe, he always had believed that Thranduil would be longing for his Halls, for all the amenities his Realm had to offer in contrast to the provisional lodging which was splendid but still temporary.

A large part of his army had already left a day after the battle was over, after the bodies of the fallen soldiers that were frozen to stone by the icy guts of winter were recovered from the snow, bringing them home into the enchanted forest to receive a proper burial.

Their King, however has stayed. For the funeral and coronation of the new King of Erebor and beyond.

“Why did you stay?” – Bard had never found the courage to ask, but the question returned to him repeatedly, playing over and over in his mind. But now he voiced it, standing in Thranduil’s pavilion with a goblet of potent wine in his hands.

“What awaits me in my Realm, King of Dale?” the Elvenking almost snapped at him, his blue eyes sparkling in the flickering candle-light. “My wife is long dead, my son has fled into the Wilds – there is nothing left for me apart from my regal duty, the obligations I have towards my people.” The brutal honesty in the Elvenking’s words made his stomach cringe – he did not know what to reply, wishing he had never raised his voice, had remained quiet for the rest of his mortal life. There was a flicker of emotion on the elf’s face that Bard couldn’t comprehend, at least not the entirety of it – it was sadness in combination with an almost dreamy smile. Softly, Thranduil added, searching for Bard’s gaze stepping closer towards him “Here I have you. That is at least what I keep telling myself.”

No words were made to describe the man’s feelings, the overwhelming emotions that rushed through him as soon the elf had spoken his own thoughts aloud. And so it came that Bard, now King of Dale, wrapped his arm around the Elvenking’s waist in a gesture of comfort, stroking his silken head until it came to rest on his shoulder, just like after their frantic lovemaking in the night before Erebor fell.

_‘I wished that crown would never have come to me’_ had been the very words the proud elf had spoken in such a sorrowful voice that the mere memory broke the mortal’s heart.

“Will you stay?” Thranduil mumbled almost inaudible against Bard’s wooden cloak, a mixture of insecurity and sadness in the elf’s voice that the man had never thought to hear again – it was just like back then when he had spoken of his beloved son. Nothing was left of Thranduil’s regal demeanor when they spoke in private with each other, it was as if he put aside the mask of ice the moment the heavy curtain fell behind them –it had been always been like this and it was not any different now.

‘ _Uneasy lies the head that wears_ a _crown’_ the Elvenking had said and it were those words that rushed over and over through his head, wasn’t he king now himself? Would his own head lie uneasy, the stubborn head that was prone to defy authority if it meddled with his sense of rightfulness and duty?

“Aye, if that is your wish, I will” Bard announced gently without thinking twice, entirely taken aback by the elf’s sorrowful words, letting his fingers run through the long hair in a soothing manner. By now he had learned how to use his hands to shoo the elf’s worries away, how to comfort him when his mind despaired. Of course he would stay, there were only a few things that he possibly wouldn’t do for the proud Elvenking - that it had been his own, sinful dream to repeat those throes of passion once more, seemed to be entirely forgotten, given that his mind had wandered off into a rather distinct direction. Right now, anything of that sort – the mere thought about it - seemed awkward, entirely out of place in regard to Thranduil’s sad mood and Bard scolded himself in silence as his mind went astray for mere moments again as he was holding the elf so close in his arms that he could his heartbeat against his chest.

_‘Let it go’_ Bard was saying to himself in silence, attempting to put his inappropriate thoughts at the back of his mind, locking them away for the moment – but as so often, he hadn’t reckoned with the elf’s response. When two strong arms wrapped around his waist, Bard’s eyes widened in surprise, having nothing of that sort expected to occur; involuntary, he gasped audible as a shiver of anticipation rushed down his spine, immediately followed by gooseflesh breaking all over his skin.

_‘Great minds think alike’_ the Elvenking had said to him the night when Gandalf had surprised him in the middle of the night, when their eyes have met in confusion about the wizard’s words which clearly had annoyed the elf. Back then, he had to suppress a chuckle – now the memory made him smile genuinely; in secret, unseen by the other, the directions their thoughts had taken were alike indeed, possibly varying only in mild nuances.

“I desire you, Bard of Dale” he heard Thranduil say, the Elvenking’s lips all of a sudden brushing against his throat, his breath tickling his skin for the blink of an eye, before he was kissing him as if there was no tomorrow – and there was actually none, Bard nearly thought bitterly in silence with the last remains of sanity. With the elf’s lips on his own, with his hands roaming hungrily over his back no coherent thought would form, but it mattered little as is secret fantasy seemed to come alive. Involuntary, Bard’s hands slipped beneath the heavy fabric of the Elvenking’s cape, pressing their bodies together until it almost hurt. Before he could say or do anything, he heard Thranduil whisper hoarsely against his neck, and not a moment later he was dragged out of the room into the elf’s bedchambers by Thranduil’s strong hands.

For what followed soon after no words were made to describe the frantic desire that apparently rushed through the elf’s veins in this cold winter night when the icy wind howled outside; there was nothing gentle, nothing comforting in his touches and caresses – a feral possessiveness gloomed in his eyes that were so much darker shades of blue than they usually were, his hands entangled into Bard’s dark strands, kissing him, undressing him hungrily as they stumbled into the distinct direction of his spacious bed.

“On all fours” the Elvenking breathed demandingly against the mortal’s throat the second before he shoved him roughly onto the silken sheets, unfastening his own robes and breeches impatiently – every moment he had to wait seemed as an absolute waste of time, simply tearing the garments that had remained on Bard’s skin apart.

“What?” Bard snapped back in surprise, his eyes involuntary widening upon the request – seldomly he had been commanded like that, and if – he certainly had made sure to disobey the order. But now? It was madness, the icy not in the Elvenking’s voice even aroused him.

“You’ve understood me perfectly well, Bowman, but if you wish I will repeat my request for you. On. all. fours” he demanded in a deadly calm voice, but for a second a twinkle flickered across his face and his dark lashed fluttered for a moment. “And I do not take it kindly if my orders are disobeyed”

Despite the almost humiliating nature of this position, Bard obliged and crawled onto all fours just how Thranduil had bid him to do, presenting his back-side shamelessly with his cock painfully hard between his thighs. Bard gasped heavily upon the unfamiliar sensation when he felt the Elvenking’s fingers brush against his entrance, preparing him hastily for what he truly desired in the dark winter night, yet all too soon those skillful digits were withdrawn from his skin, leaving him empty and wanton behind. It was just in the moment when Bard had decided to tilt his head to his side to see what Thranduil was doing, when the first strike with the flat of the Elvenking’s hand fell. “Ouch” Bard groaned upon the slap onto his arse that was soon followed by a second strike that was even harder, leaving certainly red flesh behind, making him writhe uncontrolled under the elf’s hungry eyes.

“Wonderful…” Thranduil commented rather absently, letting his fingertips trail along the red marks on the man’s cheeks in the most gentle of touch.

It was the same insanity he had experienced some days past - when the elf’s utterly wicked mind had suggested the use of burning candles and liquid wax on his skin, Bard was only able to think about the pain it would elicit, but soon after moans of pleasure had escaped his lips, pain subsided by a wanton need he didn’t even know that existed within him. Now it wasn’t any different, he had to admit, blushing scarlet unseen by his tormentor’s piercing eyes. With a chuckle he shook his head several times, muttering under his breath. “Gods, you elves have strange preferences between the sheets”

His comment was met with silence and before he could rise his voice again, his hips were firmly gripped by the elf’s hands, adjusting their angle until the tip of the erection brushed against his stretched entrance. Without further ado, Thranduil impaled himself in one shallow thrust, making Bard’s muscles contract around his cock as a result of the sudden invasion and a sharp cry fell from the man’s lips, panting heavily.

“Truly, you are a sight to behold in this position” the elf was whispering hoarsely, stilling his movements to at least allow the man to adjust to the unusual intrusion, watching him with hungry eyes. “So beautiful, so wanton” - the words were just a stir of air as the elf’s lips hovered over his shoulder, the movement of bending forward pushed him even deeper inside the pulsating channel that embraced him “and entirely mine tonight” and with the last words, he bit down hard right over the mortal’s shoulder blade.

Bard clenched both his hands into the silken sheets in a poor attempt to shoo the pain that rushed through him away, mumbling incoherent words into the pillow, resisting the urge to flinch under the elf’s weight. “Gods” he bit down on his tongue not to scream out in surprise as he felt his skin break under the elf’s fierce caress, panting under his sharp breath “’tis insane!”

Cruel it was, madness indeed, it was something Bard had no words for in his language – yet he wanted it, everything the elf was willing to give and every moment of until his vision would turn blank from desire, until the sun would rise again, breaking through the mists of winter, warming his heart and soul.

“Possibly..” the Elvenking was commenting with a knowing smile, finally letting go of Bard’s skin between his teeth. “Do you want this insanity to stop?”

A violent shake made the dark strands of Bard’s hair flow freely and this was enough reassurance for Thranduil to start moving inside him, with shallow thrusts at first but the urge to take him until Bard couldn’t differentiate up from down was sheer impossible to resist. This very night he liked it incredibly rough, hot and coarse when he fucked his mortal lover, pressing his upper body down onto the mattress, making sure that Bard would not forget this very night as he thrusts into him over and over, occasionally brushing against the hidden gland that made the man cry out so shamelessly.

For Bard it was all at once, and so much more he had ever thought to happen between them all over again; there was something in the elf’s demeanor, in the way he took his pleasure from him that let all blood flow down into his loins. There was no chance to keep his mouth shut upon the sudden assault, being fucked into oblivion, as if it was the last day on earth they lived. Soon, Bard nearly had forgotten his own name, that they were surrounded by at least a hundred of elves with no sufficient wall between them and their heated cries of passion. He was losing his sense complete to the bliss he felt, to the waves of pleasures that rushed through him. There was no power play this night, no whispered commands that the elf wished to be fulfilled. Thranduil took what he desired and apparently it was Bard’s aching body, his very soul he craved for, loosing himself in the sensual encounter as his hands roamed freely over his skin. Teeth soon followed his hands, and with every thrust another mark graced the mortal’s already scared back – with every thrust another cry tumbled from Bard’s lips, he was panting hoarsely against the pillows to muffle the treacherous sounds, tossing his head from one side to the other in vain.

Could Thranduil’s fingers be the most gentle objects on earth, now they held an unimaginable strength, pulling his head backwards as he rode him as if there was no tomorrow – and if they were true to each other there possibly was none! Not even in his wildest dreams Bard had dreamt of being used in such a shameless manner, enjoying the fierce passion of the elf - savoring ever bite, every scratch against his back until he was covered over and over in bruised – but he didn’t care, nothing mattered anymore as he lost himself under the repeated assaults. All Bard could do was to moan and cry until he was short of air, rolling his hips shamelessly against the Elvenking in an attempt to meet every single thrust until he couldn’t take anymore, whimpering and moaning, screaming his lover’s name in passion when he finally came undone.

It was madness, it were the halls of insanity they danced in their passionate dance as they came in unison, crying out the other’s name at the heights of pleasure in the darkest hours of the night, the very night before the Elvenking would return to his own Realm, leaving the ruins of Dale behind. But many hours would pass before the first rays of the sun would pierce the darkness of the cold winter night.

Exhausted, his hair damp from perspiration, his cheeks flushed from the radiating heat, Bard allowed himself to fall down onto the soft silk, coming to rest on his stomach with his head tilted to one side, still panting heavily, and trying to catch his breath.

“You are heavy…” he was muttering drowsily when the Elvenking came to rest on top of him, brushing a strand of dark hair out of Bard’s face just before his lips touched the flushed cheek repeatedly, his fingertips were almost brushing apologetically over the bruises he had left behind.

The lust the Elvenking harbored for his mortal lover that very night seemed insatiable, Bard still lingered in the blissful aftermath of orgasm, his breath hot and uneven, lost in his sweet dreams when Thranduil finally rolled off him.

“The next time you scream my name I want to see your face” the Elvenking was saying, his lips too close against his ears and not a moment later Bard was flipped around, coming to rest on his back, pearls of sweat still glistering on his forehead. He blinked – once – twice as his gaze stared right between his lover’s legs – it was impossible to believe but the elf’s cock was hard as if nothing between them had previously happened.

“Oh” Bard commented in pure astonishment and was rewarded with a smug smirk “As I have said – the night is graced with many hours – and surprises” The twinkle in the elf’s eyes sheer took his breath away – as so many other things did. Never would he tire to watch that alluring smile that graced the Elvenking’s lips nor of those fluid, almost cat-like movements. With eternal grace, Thranduil crawled between his spreaded legs, placing one of them onto his shoulders. No preparation or foreplay was necessary this time, having Bard’s entrance stretched enough only some moments ago. And so Thranduil came to lie atop of his mortal lover, weaving his own fingers into those rough, calloused hands of the man, kissing him deeply onto the lips.

Had the pace been slow, almost affectionate and loving at first, a frantic and breathtaking madness was soon to follow, his lips swallowing every sound Bard was making; it felt as if the Elvenking had decided to fuck the last sense out of his mind, filling him with an insatiable need, a longing that could never been fulfilled once Thranduil would ride out of the destroyed gates of Dale, snowflakes dancing before his perfect face.

Never – not even in his wildest dreams Bard had imagined such things, but he had not even known that such dreams might exist, either. But now he knew they were sweet reality, every inch of his body burnt under the elf’s searing touches, under his hungry lips, being filled and fucked until the first rays of the sun would peak into the new day, until he forgot his own name.

“Claim me .. make me yours” he heard himself saying in the foolish throes of passion, not even knowing that he had wanted to say the words a second ago, but they tumbled freely and without hesitation from his lips. And so the Elvenking did, withdrawing his lips only to let his teeth sink violently into his lover’s skin right across the collar-bone until the metallic taste of blood tickled his tongue. Bard tossed and turned beneath him in an attempt to flinch, but he was unable to escape Thranduil’s firm grip and he screamed in nothing else than pain.

Madness it was, he couldn’t understand why he even had asked for this.

“Forgive me” the elf breathed almost apologetically against his lover’s lips, letting his long lashes flutter. “but you asked for this; I have only fulfilled your request, King of Dale” he was whispering just before he claimed Bard’s mouth in feral passion again until his lover’s eyes snapped open in lack of air, panting against the Elvenking’s lips. Never did he still the movements of his hips though, meeting Thranduil’s thrusts with an intensity he hadn’t imagined to be possible, aching his back against the silken sheets on which he lay sprawled until his hair was damp from sweat.

“Gods” Bard panted, almost screamed again, in between two heated kisses when the Elvenking shifted their angle just so slightly that his cock brushed against his sweet spot repeatedly, keeping his thrusts rough and deep.

“You are what I want .. what I need .. and just so much more” Bard heard the Elvenking whisper hoarsely against the wet skin of his neck but soon the words were forgotten when he felt’s the elf’s teeth sink into his already bruised skin over and over again. And as his lover’s teeth tore his skin apart in the last moments of their frantic coupling, his own hands were not idle, either. With every rough thrust into him, Bard embedded his nails into the perfect back of the Elvenking, scratching down along his spine as he lost himself in the heights of pleasure. With a few last shallow thrusts, Thranduil withdraw his lips from the human’s sore skin and claimed his lips again, the possessive kiss interrupted by moans and cries of Bard’s own name as he came buried deep inside him, their bodies, hands and lips entwined. The Elvenking’s screams against his lips were enough for him to follow into heavenly damnation, breathing Thranduil’s name over and over as they rode the last waves of bliss together, until he collapsed atop of him, spent and exhausted in a way Bard never had seen the elf before. His eyes were almost hollow, the usually perfect hair a tangled mess with several strands sticking to his damp skin – in fact, Thranduil looked utterly debauched, which only made him more beautiful, Bard thought

Thranduil stayed buried deep within him for some long moments and rode out his orgasm with a few lazy thrusts whispering hot-breathed non-sense in his alien voice right into the man’s ear – Bard felt as if he would come a third time instantly, just by listening to the alluring language that the Elvenking had finally decided to use between the sheets, and he smiled dreamingly, meeting the elf’s gaze.

When Thranduil was finished with him, his entire body seemed to be covered in bruises and treacherous biting marks, his backside completely sore from their frantic lovemaking, the mingled memory of pain and pleasure would last at least a day, if not longer, Bard mused in silence, running his hands through the Elvenking’s damp strands affectionately. There was something in the way the elf had taken him, something he had never experienced before – it almost was as if Thranduil wished his lover won’t ever forget about their shared night in this wintry night in the snow-covered ruins of Dale. Bard immediately dismissed the foolish thought as a figment of his exhausted and still lust-fogged mind that played a trick upon him. The constant rising of Thranduil’s chest with every breath he took was soothing like nothing else, feeling his entire weight still on top of him was utterly delicious as was the lazy kiss that followed after.

Nothing, not even a glimpse was left of the feral, predatory demeanor the Elvenking had displayed only moments ago. Tentatively, he brushed Bard’s lips over and over with his own before he claimed them fully, bending his head down until their foreheads touched. It wasn’t until then that he finally shifted his position, rolling down of Bard’s heated body, coming to rest besides him.

 

**~~**

“This .. was intense” the Elvenking murmured against the hollow of Bard’s throat, his arm wrapped loosely around his waist in search for the warm blankets to shield the lower parts of their bodies from the icy guts of winter. Thranduil did not freeze easily, he never did as it was normal for his kin, but Bard surely would and all he could do was to take care that his lover would stay warm during the cold winter night, exhausted as he was.

“Aye” was all Bard managed to reply, intense was possibly a little understatement – it had been so intense like nothing else he had ever experienced, it was more than his at times wicked mind had him ever allowed to dream. Aye, his entire body was scratched, bruised, his lips and arse sore – but it was the sweetest pain that had ever rushed through his body. This night alone was enough to haunt his memories for the foreseeable end of his mortal life.

With a content sigh, the Elvenking lowered his head onto Bard’s shoulder and began to play absentmindedly with the dark hair on the human’s chest, painting useless patterns with his warm fingers across his abdomen, deeply lost in thoughts – Thranduil showed repeatedly a strange fascination with his body hair, a feature that the elf’s body entire lacked. Bard arched an eyebrow in astonishment, observing how content the Elvenking looked with a dreamy smile that hushed over his lips, how he lost himself entirely in the sweet caresses.

The peaceful tranquility hung heavy between them for long moments, words mattered so little in the delicious minutes after their climaxes, both caught in their musings which were so alike.

It was the Elvenking’s gentle voice who cut through the veil of silence, lifting his head just so much that he was able to look directly into Bard’s dark eyes and what the man saw in them nearly took his breath away.

“Will you visit me?” Thranduil was saying almost inaudible, his fingertips still ghosting over Bard’s chest.

“Of course I will” replied Bard determined, shaking his head against the pillows. Often have they spoken about the prospering trade which should come to pass between the Woodland Realm and Dale once the city would be rebuilt in the days after Erebor had fallen, and good relations would require visits every once in a while between the two realms – they have long ago agreed upon this.

“Yes, you have said so before.” Thranduil stated matter-of-factly. “But will you visit me as my lover and not as new King of Dale who must pay his respect to his allies?” his eyes were directed upwards and for nothing more than a second hurt and worries flickered through them.

They have never spoken of this before – but they have never spoken of this to happen again either, Bard recalled. When he had walked out of the Elvenking’s tent into the cold and harsh winter night some days past, snowflakes swirling right before his eyes, his mind had spun, his body had ached from the searing wax that had left its marks upon him. Not even in his wildest dreams had he dreamt about it to occur all over again, so much more intense than it had been the first time – dismissing every thought on that matter as an utterly foolish idea of his mind. Nothing had he, a mortal man of Laketown with three underage children to offer for the elf who could easily have the world if the wanted to - that was exactly what Bard had thought repeatedly, but apparently he had been mistaken in his assumptions.

Yes, by now he was the rightful King of Dale, but still he was mortal, doomed to die sooner or later – friendship with the powerful King of the Woodland Realm was all he could have ever wished for. Bard would not even be bitter about it, seeing their fleeting nights in throes of passion as an unique experience only a few could ever have - finding comfort in each other’s arms in the cold nights of winter.

And yet - Thranduil was offering so much more. Freely – on his own accord, out of pure desire as it seemed.

The Elvenking’s words startled him beyond measure and the longer he thought about Thranduil’s proposition his mind refused to form a coherent thought; did this ethereal creature actually want him to be his lover? Did **_HE_** himself want it to be? Of course he wanted to! Long had he fallen under Thranduil’s irresistible enchantment – yet never had he dreamt about this, had tried to talk some reason into himself when his mind had gone astray into a distinct direction. But now he began involuntary to dream about it, to find himself in the Elvenking’s strong arms again and again, being fucked into oblivion day after day which only resulted in a decent blush across his still heated cheeks.

Long moments did it take Bard to find the perfect words, to speak his very thoughts aloud. Gently, he allowed his fingers to trace along the elf’s cheek-bone, observing the mingled waves of emotions that danced over Thranduil’s face.

“When I visit your Realm after Dale is rebuild, I will pay respect to my allies, to my king – in every way he desires” Bard was answering truthfully and yet his own words sent a violent shiver down his spine, eliciting gooseflesh all over his body.

It was not until then, that Thranduil lowered his head again back down on his chest with a smile and an absolutely content sigh, snuggling closer against his body “I will be honest with you, Bard of Dale. I wish Dale rebuilt rather sooner than later as many desires live in me”

Bard almost chuckled upon the eloquent way how Thranduil phrased _‘I cannot wait’_ – those elves, and especially their imperious King, would always remain a little mystery to him, even if he would share the rest of his life with him.

“Neither can I” Bard was saying, playing repeatedly with a strand of the Elvenking’s long hair until he realized that Thranduil had already drifted off to sleep.

Long did Bard lie awake that very night, listening to the howling winter storm outside, listening to the soft breathing of the sleeping Elvenking that lay in his arms with his head resting against his chest, stroking his golden head affectionately. Thranduil made no move to change his sleeping position, apparently entirely content as he was, snuggled closely against Bard’s aching body.

Countless times Bard recalled the elf’s very words – over and over again - pondering his thoughts, his wishes and desires restlessly. How he could ever be what the proud Elvenking desired was beyond him to understand, no matter how often he repeated the words until fatigue finally overwhelmed him.

 

**~~**

Darkness still veiled the new day, the candles long burnt down except a few that painted the Elvenking’s tent into an orange twilight and peaceful silence covered the ruins of Dale.

Bard had no idea how long the elf had watched him in his sleep, letting his finger’s dance over his scared and bruised skin, kissing the blossoming bite-marks in a feathery touch almost as if he regretted what he had done during their frantic coupling. However, when Bard awoke, the shining blue eyes of the Elvenking stared directly into his own.

“Aur vaer” _(Good morning)_ Thranduil was whispering softly with a radiant smile on his lips, brushing his fingertips against Bard’s lips.

“Good morning to you as well” Bard replied rather startled, his voice and eyes still heavy from slumber, but the alien tongue the elf used made his stomach flutter in the most pleasant way possible. Often he had caught himself eavesdropping when Thranduil had spoken with his own people those past days, and more than once had Bard caught himself listening a little too obvious; he merely understood a single word, but the soft sound of the words in combination with their King’s voice was at times enough to make his body tingly. “Although I would hardly call it a morning yet” he added, rubbing the sleep out his eyes with his fingers.

“Valid point” the elf replied with a chuckle, trailing his fingertip repeatedly up and down Bard’s chest. “But when morning finally comes I no longer shall lie between those silken sheets of mine nor in your arms.”

It was just before he claimed the startled Bowman’s lips for a lazy kiss, shifting his weight so that he was rolling on top of him like he had done before so often now; it was obvious what would happen next, Bard thought when he felt a distinct and treacherous hardness against his stomach - Thranduil’s desire for him seemed insatiable that very night.

Possibly, this might have been a foolish thing to do, Bard mused for a second, but the words spilled freely over his lips that were sore just like the rest of his body. “Again?” he asked softly, his voice ringing with laughter and a mixture of surprise and disbelief of the positive sort.

“No” the Elvenking simply state, locking their gaze for seconds before he shifted his weight again, drifting distinctly lower over Bard’s form. Tantalizingly slow, Thranduil began to kiss his way from Bard’s eyes over his lips towards his throat where they remained for a while, savoring every inch of the stubble skin, nibbling the bruised skin in the most gentle way possible.

There was a fluency and elegance in the Elvenking’s movements that nearly took his breath away, resembling the predatory, yet elegant motion sequences of cats– Bard stared in awe down on his lover as Thranduil began to caress his nipples with his fingers and tongue. It was not until then, that Bard let his head finally fall back in bliss, aching his back against the mattress.

With his eyes closed his other senses were sharpened, and the Elvenking’s next movement was rewarded with a distinct yelp from the man’s lips. “By the gods..” Bard was panting breathlessly, unable to think coherently anymore when soft hair brushed against his already overly-sensitive nipples. The wicked elf had apparently decided to use the ends of his shining hair as alternative for the lack of feathers and Bard felt as if he could come from this caress alone, moaning with every touch that followed. When the Elvenking’s lips wandered along his chest, his hands however remained on the hardened nubs, rubbing over them until he could see Bard’s head toss from one side to the other. It drove Bard sheer mad with desire, made him writhe against the silken sheets he lay on and involuntary his own hands searched for the elf’s silken head.

“Do not” the Elvenking was demanding, pushing his hands gently but still distinctly away. “Lie down and savior what I am willing to give to you. Many moons will pass until you will have the chance again.”

Many moons mattered little in that moment to Bard, who had never expected this – any of it - to occur, last that Mirkwood’s proud King would decide to go down on him.

Soon, his legs were parted and Thranduil came to sit between them on his heels, bending down his head until his golden hair brushed against the man’s thighs, tickling against his hips like feathers, his blue eyes never leaving those of his lover. Bard’s heart beat wildly in his chest and his breath hitched several times when he felt those incredible soft lips brush against his cock for mere seconds before they were withdawn with a smile. As if he was spell-bound, Bard gazed downwards only to meet the Elvenking’s shining blue eyes peaking coyly upwards under his long lashes. The elf’s smile grew radiant in the moment before his lips finally encircled his erection, his tongue flickering across the opening until the first moan fell from the man’s lips.

Thranduil almost never used his hands when he touched him; Bard had realized that before, and it was not any different now. At times, the ends of the long hair brushed feathery against his hips and thighs, sending each time a shiver down his spine, but his hands lay idle against the man’s skin, barely touching him. Not that Bard would have complained – feeling the warm and wet mouth around him was almost enough to make him come for the third time that very night.

Had he tried to control his hips from bucking against the welcoming mouth before, he did not – could not – anymore hold back, losing all remains of self-control when those wicked tongue slid along his cock in the most talented way. It was madness that he felt, long long years had it been that he experienced anything of that sort and to his surprise, the Elvenking never stilled his movements. It would have been an easy task with his strong hands resting against his hips anyways – but he never did, parting his lips and teeth further to surrender to Bard’s movements, giving Bard the silent permission with his twinkling eyes alone.

Just in the moment when he was close, so very close from climaxing, the elf finally used his fingers, gripping the base of his cock to make it impossible for him to come. “WHAT?” Bard nearly screamed his surprise – this was beyond cruel and Thranduil knew it as his lips curled into a smile around the man’s arousal, chuckling ever so slightly. If he wanted or not, his eyes fell shut upon the laugh that vibrated through his entire body, only intensifying his wanton need.

Tantalizingly slow, Thranduil parted his lips and let the man’s erection slip out of his mouth, his lips still only inches away. “I am not yet done with you” the Elvenking was saying, his lips graced with a mischievous smirk. “Gods” Bard panted, writhing against the silken sheets as the elf’s warm breath tickled the wet skin of his cock; nearly it seemed as if he did it on purpose to torture him.

“You are cruel” he hissed with clenched teeth – oh he was so close, so very close – and denying him his release was beyond cruel.

“No I am not” Thranduil replied dismissively in protest, his voice low and silky with implied treat “but I CAN be cruel at times, that might be correct”

Those were the last words the Elvenking was speaking, encircling Bard’s weeping cock with his lips again before he took him down deep his throat until those rosy lips brushed against his own fingers repeatedly and again, and again, pinning the man down onto the bed single-handed.

Within minutes, Bard thrashed around, clawing his own hands fiercely into Thranduil’s hair in pure bliss. At times their gaze met, when the elf peeked upwards, absorbing the divine sight his lover presented with his mouth open, tossing his head from one side to the other in nothing else than bliss, his tiny droplets of sweat glistering in the dim candlelight, moaning the his name over and over.

It was torture – of the most pleasant sort, the Elvenking mused in silence letting his eyes linger a moment longer on the delicious sight Bard presented, before he swallowed him again and stilled his movements. Just in this very moment he withdrew his fingers, finally allowing Bard to climax, to spend himself deep down his throat.

The man’s eyes have long fallen shut in pure bliss and desire, moaning helplessly when hadn’t been allowed to come. Now that the Elvenking had decided that he had tortured his mortal lover enough with his wicked mouth, giving him permission to spill his seed down his throat, Bard almost didn’t realize that the fingers were gone all of a sudden. It took him a moment until his body reacted accordingly, but when it did – ‘Oh Valar’ the elf thought, feeling the distinct twitching against his mouth. Bard’s writhing against the sheets only intensified, thrusting his hips upwards a last time as he came hard, with the elf’s name on his lips for the third time that very night.

 

**~~**

“Why..?” Bard panted breathlessly, still riding the aftermath of his orgasm when the elf crawled onto him again, staring right into his lust-darkened eyes.

“Because I wanted to” Thranduil replied with a smirk, using Bard’s exact own words from some days ago. With his hand tangled in Bard’s damp hair he kissed him lazily on his lips before he added in a dreamy voice. “Because I wanted to give you something that you will remember in those cold winter nights that will surely come, something that warms your heart when the icy guts of winter howl outside. Well, and truth to be told, all the aching bruises and scratches on your back, those bite-marks will fade in no time – memory in comparison is precious, inerasable. It is something that will last forever.”

Bard was entirely lost with every word that left the Elvenking’s lips, there was a beauty in the things Thranduil was saying that took his breath away, that made him stare into those wonderful blue eyes for long moments, pondering his thoughts. When he had made his decision a broad smile hushed over his face and he shamelessly utilized the elf’s mental absence to flip him around.

“What do you think you do?” the elf muttered in weak protest whilst he observed the man climbing on top of him.

“Well – I have decided to give you a memory on your own, my king” Bard whispered with a smile, shifting his position on top of him until the elf’s cock brushed against his entrance – no preparation was needed as he was still stretched and slick from before. In assistance with his hands he lowered himself onto it inch by inch, attempting futilely to hide his discomfort. Every inch of his body seemed to be affected by their insane couplings previously, he was aching and hurting as if he had fought restlessly for many many nights on the battlefield.

The Elvenking observed his face closely, how Bard bit his bottom lip every now and then, how tiny pearls of sweat formed on his forehead, his brows furred as if he had to concentrate on what he did. Saying he did not cherish Bard’s decision would have been a blatant lie, yet he couldn’t completely dismiss his worries, the obvious discomfort was hard to stomach. When Bard had taken the elf’s cock completely, he stilled for long moments, trying to allow his body to adjust, but no matter how long he waited, the ache, the distinct burn probably would not go away – it had to be like this, Bard wanted it to be like this, he realized.

Bard drew a deep breath before he began to move slowly up and down, rolling his hips only inches back and forth and only then he could feel Thranduil’s hands against his hips, supporting his actions, helping him in everything he did. However, the elf was never interfering with his movements. Everything Bard did was entirely his own choice, in his own pace, how much he wanted to take – the elf simply gazed upwards, his eyes sparkling and his lips curled into an affectionate smile. This sight was enough for Bard to ignore the pain that rushed repeatedly through him, fighting it back into the last corner of his mind – this smile was worth any pain that existed on this world, there was a radiance in Thranduil’s smile for which no words were made, for the looks the Elvenking was giving him under his long lashes.

_‘Gods’_ – it was as if the scales fell from Bard’s eyes, it was the very same expression the elf had given him several times those past days. Never had he seen it, never had he actually realized what those looks were supposed to mean, being entirely numb and blind – Thranduil had been shamelessly flirting with him that night when he had run into the Grey Wizard on his way home, who immediately had dragged him back towards the Elvenking’s tent.

“You’ve been flirting with me, Thranduil” Bard was saying in amusement, stilling his movements for a moment “and I have never realized it”.

“Possibly…” the elf replied, his smile only intensifying. Involuntary, Bard turned the surprised smirk of his own into the most seductive smile he had to offer, weaving his hands right into the elf’s own who apparently saw his gesture as an invitation to change their position, sitting upright with Bard still resting in his lap.

Not long did it take until Bard was embraced by the Elvenking’s strong arms, his head falling against Thranduil’s forehead, kissing him in the same rhythm as they moved together slowly, moaning against their damp and heated skin, their hands buried into the other’s long strands. There was nothing rough, nothing possessive in their third encounter that very night – rocking against each other, mumbling incoherent words against the other’s skin, savoring the sweet kisses in between with closed eyes. Had been the previous couplings for sating the appetite, this was exclusively for dessert, delaying the end until the very last moment to cherish the divine sensation, losing themselves in eternal bliss over and over again until they climaxed together holding each other closely in their arms, their exhausted bodies heated and damp from perspiration.

 

**~~**

With a content sigh, Thranduil fell backwards into the bed, pulling the man down with him, his eyes already closed. The silence that hung between them was both comfortable and charged with emotions neither of them could find the courage to voice, a silence that was only pierced by the distinct sound of their lips brushing against each other, their still uneven breathing, was comfortable and so entirely different. Bard said nothing, however, a million thoughts rushed through his head at once, savoring the sweet touches the elf bestowed on his chest, drawing useless patters across the his bruised chest.

Again, the elf was a mystery, full of surprises – had he been rough with him be, his touches now were the most gentle ones Bard had ever felt against his skin, caresses in which he could easily lose himself over and over again, until he would sink into the pleasant post-orgasm slumber, falling asleep in the Elvenking’s arms whilst he listened to his even breathing.

“I .. think I will go now?” Bard offered as he finally rolled off him. Nay, he didn’t want to leave, but it was for his own good - better now, quick and easy, before sleep finally would overwhelm him, he thought. A last lazy kiss on those bruised lips was all he could ask for now, and so he did – not asking though but bending his head down until a veil of dark strands shield their faces from the flickering candle light. The last remaining inches however where bridged by Thranduil who kissed him lovingly and before he lost himself again in the caress, the elf’s soft voice tore him out of his musing.

“If that is your wish, you are free to leave whenever you desire – but if it is not and you think you must, have to, should - call it as you wish, you are solely mistaken.” he was saying, answering the question that Bard had never seriously considered to be answered, letting his eyes snap wide open in puzzlement. “I won’t bid you to take your leave this very night, Bard of Dale. By now every single one of my men possibly knows that you are here, anyways. This time we both weren’t all too quiet, you the last, I fear” The elf chuckled softly against Bard’s skin, observing how the man blushed immediately scarlet when the words were spoken. “Do not worry about such trivialities, but consider staying and keeping me company those last hours, before I have to bid you Farewell”

“Aye” was all Bard said, lying down with his head against the numerous pillows. There was an emotion in the man’s eyes that Thranduil couldn’t interpret, but the man was smiling dreamingly as he finally spoke again. “What is the word for Farewell in your native tongue?”

“Novaer – why are you asking?” the elf inquired, lifting his head and shifting his position that he came to rest on Bard’s chest with crossed arms, arching an elegant eyebrow towards him. Actually Thranduil had expected many things rushing through Bard’s mind, but this question was certainly not among them.

“Possibly for the sole purpose that I can bid you a proper farewell tomorrow” Bard replied with a smile, playing absently with the elf’s hair again. “…and possibly because I have fallen in love with those strange words of yours.”

The furrow on the Elvenking’s face only intensified, if this man spoke his own language he certainly would know by now, wouldn’t he? “But you don’t understand anything, do you?”

“Nay, hardly anything” Bard admitted. “But it is not about understanding. I simply love to listen to you when you speak it, you possibly could insult me and you would still make me smile” he was adding with a hearty laugh, seeing himself smiling rather dumbly whilst the elf was speaking the most horrendous swearwords that existed in their tongue. Did they even exist? Hardly he mused in silence. “Your language is beautiful, Thranduil. The ring of it is alluring, enchanting ..just like the one who speaks it”

“Oh, I am flattered” Thranduil laughed like Bard never had heard him laugh before, there was nothing false in his laughter this time. Now it was the elf who was playing with a strand of the dark hair, letting it continuous run through is fingers. “But you should have told me earlier” Thranduil complained in a soft tone. “The real beauty of those words of mine is when they are whispered against your heated skin, against your ears and lips, the moment you lose yourself in my arms, Bard of Dale”

And those were the last words in the common tongue that left the Elvenking’s lips, murmuring countless elvish words that Bard could not understand with a smile against his lips, against his neck and chest, and involuntary he lost himself completely in the alluring voice of the elf, drifting off into a peaceful slumber, holding Thranduil still in his arms.

_“_ Losto vae, meleth-nîn” _(Sleep well, my love)_ the Elvenking whispered softly before he placed a gentle kiss onto the man’s forehead, listening to the even breathing that finally took over. For long centuries those words had not left his lips and if he was honest to himself he had thought that he would never use them again. Yet there he was, breathing elvish words against Bard’s heated skin affectionately, as if it was the most common thing to do.

In truth, it was the absolute contrast of common – the proud and wintry Elvenking had never touched a mortal man in his life before, and soon Thranduil was deeply lost in thoughts about everything that had come to pass between them. ‘So snow comes after fire and even dragons have their ending’ – it were the words of the prophecy, and they had been proven correct countless times, but there was something else in the foreboding words that startled him, making his exhausted mind swirl.

When he had decided to ride towards Erebor through the piercing cold of winter that his kin hardly bothered, he had expected many things to happen, however, to find comfort and a strange sort of happiness in the arms of a mortal was certainly not among them.

_“_ Losto vae, aran-nîn” _(Sleep well, my king)_ Thranduil whispered against the man’s skin, before his mind drifted off into peaceful slumber, leaving the world and their quarrels behind for now.

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> there is this song from *ASP - Und wir tanzten* which was beyond inspiring for this chapter


	2. Chapter 02

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Time has finally come to say good-bye to each other - lots of fluff, lots of kisses and whispered words and good-bye's... poor bae's :(

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks[ xChrononautx](http://archiveofourown.org/users/xChrononautx/pseuds/xChrononautx) for beta-reading this chapter.

**Wasting the Dawn - Chapter 02**

**~~**

Long before the first rays of the sun announced the new day, Thranduil awoke, still feeling as if was caught in the most pleasant dream despite being awake, completely relaxed and sated despite the early hour of the day. Indeed he had expected many things to occur in the ruins of Dale, in those days after the battle, but to fall helplessly in love with a mortal man he hardly knew was certainly not among them.

‘Love..’ he whispered to himself as if the word was completely alien to him when he watched the peaceful sleep of Bard, how his chest moved up and down with every breath he took, his eyes still tightly closed, his lips bruised and distinctly red from the numerous kisses they have shared – for moments, the elf couldn’t believe that he had actually called it love what existed between them. There was no doubt that he harbored a certain affection for the dark-haired man, but he was old enough not to mistake the foolish throes of passion for the sacred and divine feeling of love.

Yet, it was the unmistakable feeling of love that rushed through his mind and body, the unmistakable emotion that made him shiver in longing and excitement. Long centuries had it been that Mirkwood’s King had truly loved somebody – apart from the parental love he harbored for his only son, yet there he was, watching this man with a dreamy expression on this face as his eyes roamed over Bard’s handsome face, further down over the parts of his chest that were not covered by the heavy blanket where countless passion marks now bloomed fully. Thranduil almost felt apologetic for his rather violent actions during their love-making, but hadn’t it seemed that Bard had enjoyed it, even bid him to bite him? Aye – the man indeed had, and the memory let an affectionate smile flicker over the Elvenking’s lips.

The King was briefly tempted to wake the other, cherishing the last moments they probably would have together for many many months, but he dismissed the thought as quickly as the idea had crossed his mind. Whereas he almost needed no sleep at all, he had heard continuous rumors that mortals slept much more than elves ever did. And truth to be told, the last days had been probably very exhausting for the new King of Dale who was not accustomed to all the duties he now had to fulfil.

Soundlessly, he climbed out of the bed, covering himself against the cold of winter with one of the silken blankets and got himself dressed, shooting a longing glance into Bard’s direction every now and then when the angle permitted it. The robe he had chosen for the day he would return to his own Realm was made out of midnight-blue velvet, adorned with intricate, tiny silver leaves along its sleeves, accompanied by an ornamented silver-buckled belt around his waist.‘Special times, require special preparations’ Mirkwood’s King told himself in silence with a sigh as he placed the Crown of Winter onto his head in front of the massive mirror, studying his own appearance for long moments. During the days of war, a simple ornamented circlet had been entirely sufficient, and apart from Thorin’s burial that was followed by Dáin’s coronation, he had not worn his official crown, which was so much heavier than the crown of leaves and berries could ever be. But now he had to, and he cursed over the heavy burden in silence, afraid to wake the sleeping King of Dale with his futile contemplation.

In a few hours he would leave the wintry ruins of Dale behind, returning to his own Realm with only a fraction of the original host he had brought with him to the Lonely Mountain, with the sorrow of his ‘lost’ son deep in his heart. Life would never be the same again, his halls would seem empty and deserted without the presence of Legolas within them, the Prince being so much more than his only son. At times, he was everything he had – a constant reminder of a long lost love that still veiled his heart, his best friend and ally, his most trusted advisor – and now he was gone.

But there was nothing that could make things undone, Legolas had left into the Wilds of Middle-Earth and all his father could hope for was that he would return safely to his halls one day – day after day would pass, day after day he would await his son’s return in vain; deep inside his heart he already knew that many years would pass until he could embrace him again with his strong arms. Another heavy sigh fell involuntarily from his lips as he sank into the massive wooden chair, forcing himself to sit still despite the dreadful thoughts that occupied his mind.

For long moments, the elf did nothing more than watch the sleeping form of his mortal lover, still fascinated by the closed eyes of the man that was so alien to him who slept with his eyes open. His gaze travelled along Bard’s face, observing the smile that curled at the edge of his mouth despite his slumber, his rosy lips, distinctly bruised from the countless kisses they have shared, the dark hair that perfectly harmonized with the color of his silken pillows. ‘Oh Valar’ he whispered softly to himself as his eyes continued their journey further down, coming to rest on Bard’s muscular and hairy chest. One that moved evenly up and down with every breath he took – it was a mystery but the sight the man presented soothed his own senses, and momentary his worries seemed to subside, veiled by a different emotion that stirred in his loins.

And with every moment that passed, the urge to wake this beautiful creature that rested so innocently in his own bed only intensified, yet he dismissed the thought every time it aroused, admiring the loving expression that flickered across Bard’s face.

Thranduil had no idea how long he had truly watched him utterly mesmerized, and certainly he easily could look upon his mortal lover for another hour without getting bored in the slightest, yet other matters awaited him sooner or later. Though it appeared as if Bard would never wake on his own accord, still caught deeply in the realm of dreams. Soundlessly, he rose from his seat and began to walk over to his bed, sitting down on the edge of it without disturbing the resting man. He bit back a chuckle, truly wondering how deeply Bard was actually sleeping, dismissing the wicked thought that followed immediately. There was no time for such frivolities right now, a little to his disappointment.

“Aur vaer, meleth” (good morning) Thranduil whispered softly in the language his lover wished so much to hear, his fingers trailing over the slightly parted lips in a feathery touch, but his words were met with silence. A little louder, he repeated his words, bending down towards Bard’s face with a curious expression in his blue eyes.

And finally, Bard reacted to his voice; he blinked – once, twice - until his eyes snapped completely open, realizing that the Elvenking’s face was only inches away from his own. It took a moment until his mind processed that the elf was already completely dressed, wearing his crown and a heavy robe he had never seen before on him. He truly looked like the imperious King that so many feared right now. On Bard, however, his regal appearance had an entirely different effect, despite his fatigue something stirred in his loins as he stretched lazily against the mattress in a futile attempt to chase the tiredness away.

It appeared as if Thranduil had not slept at all this very night, mysterious creatures those elves, he thought to himself before his lips were claimed in a lazy kiss.

“Good morning to you as well” Bard finally replied when his lips were released. “Haven’t you slept at all?” The day was still veiled in utter darkness, the howling of the wind being the only sound that danced through the night.

“Hardly” Thranduil confessed with a smirk that rang in his voice as he spoke. “Most of my time I have spent watching you sleep.” The Elvenking’s tone was sweet and almost innocent as he stared directly into Bard’s still dream-lid eyes. If Bard wanted or not, it was impossible to fight the distinct blush that crept up his cheeks upon the revelation – he must have looked utterly debauched in his sleep, he possibly still looked extraordinarily tired right now and was far away from being presentable, yet the elf appeared to admire him despite all odds. When Bard shifted his weight and sat up against the wooden headboard, he realized that exhausted was a little understatement as every single inch of his body was hurting, even muscles he did not even know that existed burnt beneath his skin.

“Forgive me for disturbing your sleep, but I fear you would have slept until midday if I had not interfered” the elf offered quietly along with an apologetically smile, his jewel-adorned finger trailing along Bard’s jaw-line tantalizingly slow.

“Aye, possibly” Bard confessed, slightly distracted by the elf’s caress. He indeed would never turn down a good-night’s sleep, and the hour of the day still could be called a night, even if Thranduil acted as if it was already noon. Rare had been the days when he could sleep in, being responsible for three children on his own.

The dreamy expression on the Elvenking’s face nearly fooled him, yet Bard saw beyond the veil that clouded Thranduil’s heart. “Something ails you…what is it, my king?”

“All … and nothing.” The elf replied mysteriously, brushing a strand of dark hair out of Bard’s face. “Things that have come to pass, and that cannot be undone” Most likely, his thoughts had been occupied by the decision of his only son, and being a parent himself, Bard could understand his worries all too well. Compassion filled his heart once more, and his hands found their way into the elf’s hair, at least as much as his silvery crown permitted.

“I shall take my leave soon” he offered, a lump of regret forming in his throat as soon as the words have left his lips. Of course he would have enjoyed staying a little longer, savoring the last precious moments they had together, not knowing when they would met each other again.

“Aye.” Thranduil simply nodded, brushing his lips against Bard’s for a chaste and innocent kiss. “As much as I wish to bid you to stay, it would not be wise. But allow me a few more moments in your arms.”

Bard was taken aback by the Elvenking’s affectionately said words; there was nothing demanding nor icy in them, and they were so highly contrasting compared to his already kingly outer appearance. “Of course” was all Bard managed to reply after long moments of silence, his mind being occupied with different thoughts.

Before he could spin his musing any further, the elf climbed on top of him in an elegant, almost cat-like movement, accompanied by a grace when he shifted his weight until he sat astride of him, that would never fail to make Bard stare in awe. It was the only position Thranduil’s already made up appearance permitted, but Bard was entirely content with the situation, feeling the strands of silken hair brush against his naked chest when the elf bent down to claim his lips in a possessive, yet loving kiss that Bard returned with the same eagerness, trailing his fingers over the elf’s smooth skin, along his jaw-line until he brushed accidently against the cold metal of the King’s crown.

Gasping audibly against the other’s lips he opened his eyes again to observe the astonishing beauty the elf was. The kiss alone was enough to make him grow hard, but there was something else, too. Something that Bard could not explain nor comprehend himself, but it was actually the fact, that Thranduil already wore his regal crown and the expensive robe that thrilled him further. For Bard, who never submitted freely to anyone, who had defied orders on a regular basis when they were not to his liking, not giving a single fuck what the Master had to say to him – now he would have indeed begged for orders, as long as they came from that pretty mouth of the elf, if only time would have permitted any of that sort.

Those things had to wait for long month, Bard decided reluctantly, and lost himself in the searing kiss all over again, his eyes tightly closed as he devoured the sweetness of the elf’s mouth and his touches against his naked skin. Soon his mind was silenced by the bruising kiss and Bard bucked his hips up against the elf’s weight, slipping his fingers between his neck and the collar of the robe. Or at least as much as the restricting garment allowed it. Desire washed through him once more, reducing his body to a quivering heap as Thranduil’s hands danced along his chest.

“I fear I could love you” the Elvenking murmured against Bard’s lips in between tender kisses, his voice distinctly carrying the first hints of passion. Indeed, he seemed entirely unwilling to let go of his mortal lover, even if he should have known better than to loose himself in their endearments all over again.

“I fear you have already loved me so much last night that I can hardly walk today.” Bard replied bluntly, followed with a hearty laugh as he stretched lazily against the silken sheets.

“Forgive me, but you did not seem entirely opposed to the idea when I had my way with you. Please tell me if I am mistaken.” Thranduil teased, his eyes twinkling with mischief.

“Nay, you are not. I shamelessly have to admit that I have greatly enjoyed myself.” Flattery could go both ways, yet a distinct blush crept back to Bard’s cheeks as his mind recalled the sinful details rather vividly.

"Good." The elf smirked broadly, that was going to be all he said too as he finally climbed off of the other in a graceful, fluid motion.

Truth to be told, Bard was in no mood at all to follow the Elvenking’s movements, feeling tired, exhausted and being distinctly aroused all over again from their kisses alone. Yet he knew he must. He finally rose from the bed with a frown and began to collect his belongings that lay scattered on the floor.

Once he was dressed, his time to bid Mirkwood’s King farewell had come if he wanted it to or not, some things could not be avoided. “So this is it, I guess?” Bard asked rhetorically, a certain note of regret audible in his voice whilst he was combing through his hair with his fingers rather nervously.

“For the moment, I fear it is.” the elf replied almost apologetically as he took a step forward, bridging the distance between them. “Worry not - as I have said: It is only for the moment. You are always welcomed in my Realm, free to visit if you long to see me. But be warned all the same – it will be always like this. It matters not if we desire to change the situation as we cannot.”

There was a wisdom in the Elvenking’s voice, even if every word had made him want to swallow hard, and a lump forming in his throat.

“Novaer, aran-nîn” _(Farewell, my king)_ Bard whispered against Thranduil’s lips, not caring if he had miss-pronounced the words he had picked up from the elvish guards a while ago. A radiant smile spread over the elf's lips, seeming to make his blue eyes flicker in a way that was breathtakingly beautiful. But it was the knowledge that it were his own words that elicited the smile, that make his stomach flutter.

“Novaer. A lû e-govaned vîn, meleth-nîn”(Farewell, until we meet next, my love) Mirkwood’s King replied, before he leaned in for one last, gentle kiss, cupping Bard’s face with both of his large hands whilst the other sneaked his arms around his waist. There was a deep understanding between them, unity where no words were needed.

Soft touches were enough for both.

“Farewell, until we meet next.” the elf mumbled in an almost sad tone, stroking lovingly over Bard’s cheeks and locking their gaze for long moments. It was as if Thranduil had looked directly into his very soul, right into his heart.

“Farewell and a safe journey.” Bard mumbled, withdrawing his hands ever so slowly, to savior, and prolong the moment as long as possible. If he wanted it or not, sadness overwhelmed him, and he was unable to fight the emotion as he hesitantly took a step backwards, breaking the contact between them. Indeed it was time to leave now, Bard told himself – he had never been the one for dramatic farewell’s and now was not any different. He simply wanted to get it over and done with.

“Good-bye, Thranduil. And thank you … for everything.” he told the elf, struggling to keep is voice unaffected by his emotions. One last time Bard allowed his eyes roam freely over the ethereal beauty the Elvenking was, absorbing as many details as possible that should warm his heart in the coming days of winter.

“Remember, King of Dale – your presence is required when I will leave these ruins behind.” It was the obvious the Elvenking stated, his tone all of a sudden regal and cold – involuntary the sound of it made Bard shudder, but not with disgust.

“Aye – I never assumed anything else” Bard answered, slightly puzzled by Thranduil’s words but even more so by his body’s response, furrowing his brows.

“Good. Make sure you do not oversleep.” the elf added indifferently, with his piercing blue eyes resting on the man’s form.

“No. I won’t” Bard stated, even though he was not certain if the elf meant what he said. “And if I do, you can blame yourself for it, King of the Woodland Realm.” It was impossible to resist the urge to roll his eyes and so he did as he finally turned around. Yes, he was extraordinarily tired, exhausted, and every inch of his body was hurting. But he continued, finally brushing the heavy curtain that separated Thranduil’s bedchamber from the rest of the tent, aside and strode out.

**~~**

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **Feedback is, as always, highly appreciated :) **


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Time to say good-bye :(

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Wavesheep's art on tumblr was highly inspiring for this chapter [*click*](http://wavesheep.tumblr.com/post/107010466586/after-this-link-o-o)  
> 

 

Bard shook his head in wonder upon his own thoughts and words as he stepped outside the pavilion that had been erected some time ago and would soon disappear forever. Somehow he had grown accustomed to the elves that resided in Dale ever since Thranduil’s army had travelled towards the Lonely Mountain. It was with a sigh and also with a heavy heart that Bard resumed his walking through the snow-covered ruins, grateful that nobody seemed to be awake at such an unruly hour as his steps were anything but graceful. Every single step he took hurt, vibrating through him - his entire body seemed to ache from the frantic passion he had experienced between the Elvenking’s sheets.

Only a few hours were left until he had to bid his farewell in public, and the mere thought made his stomach cringe; it was utterly foolish to harbor such possessive thoughts, when he had never expected anything of it to occur, yet they were there, the sweet memories inerasable burnt right into his soul and heart. Long has Bard fallen under the magical spell of Mirkwood’s imperious King, craving his touch, drawn to him like the moth to the searing flame – the elf was irresistible.

Soundlessly, he sneaked back into his own provisional house and despite the harsh cold of the first hours of the day, Bard did not freeze, his body still burning from the nocturnal events. A look in the cloudy mirror was enough to tell him that a couple of hours of sleep would not be the worst choice, he looked even more exhausted than he had thought he would be. Exhaustion was a slight understatement, indeed he looked utterly debauched, unable to keep his eyes open, his lips bruised and burning red, his hair a tangled mess. Yet, a dreamy smile hushed over his lips as his eyes travelled along the line of treacherous passion marks that blossomed across his torso – they would be a constant reminder of the foolish throes of passion for many days.

With a heavy sigh he sunk into his bed, forgetting about everything when sheer exhaustion overwhelmed him. He fell into a peaceful slumber immediately.

 

**~~**

The first snowflakes had come extraordinary early this year, it was not even November when Dale was already covered by a white blanket of ice. By now, winter truly reigned with its icy gusts and howling wind, having a firm grip on the remaining inhabitants of Dale who had suffered so much already those past weeks – ever since the Dragon had destroyed their old lives in Laketown. And would it have not been for the Elves, their suffering would have been much worse than it already was.

It was no surprise therefore, that the mortal inhabitants of Dale seemed to have a strange fascination with the elves – the old market place was crowded by strangers who came to watch them depart, to thank their allies again for their selfless help in so many ways possible.

There always had been rumors in Laketown, stories about the strange folk that dwelt in the surrounding woods. Legends of the ancient and immortal race of Elves and their imperious, yet beautiful King, not seldom the word ‘sorcerer’ was among them, legends of how he would enchant men and beast alike to his will, whenever he pleased or desired to do so, putting a spell upon those who dared to look at him, an enchantment that could not be broken. Of course those legends were nonsense, yet the strange fascination persisted among the mortals and it appeared as if every single resident wanted to catch a last glimpse of the Woodland Elves and their King. Countless whispered words danced through the air, accompanying the snowflakes that looked like tiny, delicate stars that swirled right before the Elvenking’s face as he searched among the crowd for Bard. Thranduil was extraordinary tall, even among his own kin and therefore overlooked the crowd of men easily. Wearing a woolen coat and a scarf – if it was against the cold or to hide the treacherous marks on his skin, Thranduil did not know, probably it was both and it made him smile for the blink of an eye.

“I desire a last word in private, King of Dale” he demanded, his voice cold like the piercing wind that howled through the ruins of Dale, gesturing him to follow.

It was not the icy wind that made him shudder, but the elf’s voice. “Of course, King Thranduil” Bard replied, choking out the formal address of the Elvenking. It already felt odd to use such formalities after what they have shared the past night, even more so if hundreds of his own people stood around them. Without haste or hesitation, he followed, struggling to keep up with his pace. Every step he took was a constant reminder of what they have done a few hours ago.

“What is it …?” Bard began as they were out of sight and earshot in something what was once a yard, surrounded by the remaining stonewalls that shielded them.

But even before he could finish his impatient inquiry, he was shoved roughly against the nearest stone wall, pinned against it with the Elvenking’s body. “Nothing of importance” Thranduil replied huskily before he kissed him as if there was no tomorrow, weaving his jeweled fingers firmly into the dark strands, pressing their faces together whilst he pushed his tongue inside the awaiting mouth. If Bard wanted or not (of course he wanted, craved the touch though), he had little to say in the matter, unable to escape the firm hold the elf had on him. Bard was felt a warmth beginning to form in his chest and involuntary he pressed himself even closer against the elf’s body, aching his back against the cold stones. It was almost too much for him to bear, and the pleasure spreading throughout his body left him breathless with a need Bard could not explain with words – a mere kiss from the elf seemed to be enough to set his mind ablaze.

“Have been these the words you wanted to speak in private?” Bard couldn’t help but to chuckle softly, still panting heavily.

“Sort of” the elf replied with an honest smile on his lips and with a twinkle in his magical blue eyes. “Thank you for your hospitality, Bard of Dale. I greatly hope I soon can return the favor in my own halls. My own people will occasionally travel to Dale in terms of trade – if you or your people require anything, do not hesitate to approach them, they do speak the common tongue.”

“Thank you.. for everything” Bard was saying, taken aback by the kindness of the Elvenking’s words.

“But was I truly wanted to say is: I have greatly enjoyed our not so clandestine meetings and believe me, I hope the winter will be short, yet I doubt it.”

Bard wished to reply, to speak his thoughts aloud, confessing that his heart seemed to be affect by their nocturnal trysts – but the elf’s hands grabbed him on the coat all of a sudden, Thranduil’s lips hindered him to speak a single word; maybe it was for the best, Bard thought, as his eyes fell shut and his lips parted, giving the other access to whatever he desired. Unable to hold back a wanton sigh, as the elf’s tongue explored every inch of his mouth eagerly, holding Bard’s head firmly in place with his strong hands. Within seconds, Bard lost himself in the insane display of passion their kiss was, it made him tremble all over with excitement and he returned the endearment with the same eagerness the elf displayed, weaving his fingers into the silken strands of Thranduil’s hair.

“Farewell, meleth-nîn – I much desire to speak with you again” Thranduil was saying, his voice heavy with arousal, shortly after he broke their kiss, touching Bard’s cheek with his slender fingers in a feathery touch. Bard was not entirely certain if speaking meant kissing and touching each other but he simply nodded, before he replied huskily. “So do I. Farewell, my king and thank you for the constant reminder of last night.”

“Oh” Thranduil laughed, as if he had forgotten about that for the moment, finally letting go of Bard’s coat. “With pleasure, Bard. But now I think we should return, although my people might have already figured out that we are not solely talking right now.”

Bard blushed scarlet, indeed he had totally forgot about that little detail and it made him feel uncomfortable, yet he knew he couldn’t escape their knowing eyes.

“Now come on, you haven’t been appeared to be so shy yesterday nor the night before, when you screamed my name in bliss.” the elf stated with a laugh. His hand felt warm and smooth as it brushed over the glowing cheeks in a gentle touch. Bard only blushed more – they were utterly true, which didn’t help the course, in fact he could not remember when he had been the last time so wanton, so needy.

“They do not care, Bard.” Thranduil said quietly, locking their gaze for long moments as snowflakes danced through the air, melting against their heated skin. “They never will. I am their King if you should have forgotten”

Of course he had not – how should he with the Elvenking standing right before him in all his regal demeanor, but it made it only worse that Thranduil did not seem to care at the slightest and he thanked the cold, on which he could blame his burning cheeks.

Maybe it was madness to ask the Elvenking for it right now, yet Bard did, not giving his idea a second thought. “Would you kiss me one last time?”

The elf smiled in amusement. “Of course I would – and I will” He was meeting Bard’s gaze once more before he bridged the distance between them, brushing his lips tentatively against the other’s.

As the kiss deepened, Bard could no longer restrain himself, flinging his arms around the elf’s neck, weaving his fingers into the silken strands one last time. Long years had he thought that all passion was buried deep within him, at times he had even thought it was truly lost as long as he would live, but now his entire body was set aflame, burning for the touch of the Elvenking’s fingers, for those passionate lips against his own. So long had he repressed his own desires that it almost felt alien to him, yet he sank into the embrace, opening himself completely to the passionate kiss, welcoming Thranduil’s exploring tongue on the insides of his lips, against his teeth and soon further down his mouth.

Bard was thirsting heavily for something he had not even known he desired until now, lest from the alien being Mirkwood’s King was – at times he had even despised such frivolities when he had heard about them in the taverns of Laketown. Yet there he stood, with his hands tangled into the elf’s hair, returning the kiss with an eagerness that took his own breath away.

Bard nearly fell when Thranduil broke the kiss and backed away slightly, still deeply lost in his own musing – it were the elf’s strong hands and the stone wall which kept him from falling.

“I probably will miss you…” the words were spoken, even before Bard knew he wanted to say anything, and his mouth gasped ajar; it was not meant to be like this – it never was! And in silence he cursed for his own foolishness, deeming his outburst entirely inappropriate.

“I am flattered” the elf replied with a mischievous smirk that disappeared as quickly as it came. “And now come, we have to leave. If I desire to stay matters not as my people await their departure, they crave to return to their families, to their homes and a normal life – and I won’t delay their course due to personal afflictions. Do not judge me in this – a King lives for his subjects, not for himself, but you might learn this soon enough.”

“I do not judge you, Thranduil.” Bard said, his voice still carrying the distinct note of excitement. Quickly, he drew in a few deep breaths to steady his voice and his composure, unwilling to step in front of his people like this.

 

 

**~~**

It was incredible how Thranduil could change his entire demeanor within seconds, had he been burning with passion only moments ago, he was totally indifferent by now, wearing his regal mask as if nothing had ever happened between them in the hidden yard in the snow-covered ruins. Not even his voice betrayed him as he bid his farewell to the waiting inhabitants of Dale, standing in the middle of his own kin now.

When their gaze met across the distance, Bard’s heart missed a beat, it was as if the elf looked right into his mind – until now he had successfully denied it, but now his heart leapt violently against his chest and sadness mingled with the other emotions in his mind.

Things would never be easy – they never had been for him is entire life.

“Na lû e-govaned vîn, Bard, King of Dale” (until we meet again/ _until next we meet)_ the Elvenking stated, his voice filled with authority and indifference, but in silence he added to himself as his eyes travelled across the man’s handsome face _‘I fear I might miss you all too soon’_. Thranduil swallowed hard in a futile attempt to wash the lump of regret from his perfect throat, watching the man’s features one last time, his smile, those expressive yet gentle brown eyes, absorbing every single detail for many lonely nights to come.

“Novaer, King Thranduil” (Farewell) Bard replied in the elf’s native tongue and bowed ever so slightly before him, even if their status was the same by now. And to his surprise, the Elvenking returned his gesture, bending his head with almost closed eyes ever so slightly, bringing his right hand towards his heart.

Bard stared in awe, truly mesmerized by the Elvenking’s appearance – never before had he seen Mirkwood’s proud King bow before anybody, nor could he read the gesture of his hand, yet the entirety of the situation – combined the memory of what has happened between them in the very night – made his stomach flutter.

For long moments Bard stood among his own people and watched the elves depart from the snow-covered ruins of Dale, those who had been their savior and ally after the Dragon has destroyed their homes. When Thranduil departed, Bard watched him go in silence, unimpressed by the never-ending figments of words that ghosted through the air, uttered by those who stood around him. He did not listen to any of it, being caught in his own world as his eyes were resting on the ethereal figure that rode in their middle, shining in the rays of sun that now pierced through the dull sky – a graceful beauty for which no words were made in the common tongue.

 

**~~**

 

 


	4. The Embrace of Winter

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> It is the harshest winter since many years, still Bard, now rightful King of Dale, organizes the rebuilt of the ruined city. He is fully occupied with his new regal duties and his role as father of three, but late at night when the city is peaceful and quiet, he allows his thoughts to wander.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> *cough* Well – I am truly truly sorry for having been such a lazy fucker those past months, but somehow I was busy first and then I totally lacked inspiration for how to continue this. <3 Thanks to everybody who is still sticking with this fic <3 
> 
> But aye, I have found my inspiration for them again, and I did not wish to leave this as a never-ending story. I WILL continue this WIP, I WILL complete it – but as work life is rather demanding I only find time to write on the weekends. So bear with me if the updates will not come every few days. 
> 
> **[Disclaimer]** – The elves are (unfortunately) not mine. They belong to J.R.R. Tolkien and Tolkien Estate – I just like to explore their lives a little further. No money is made from this story.  
>  **[Beta]** – [OohLaGalion](http://archiveofourown.org/users/OohLaGalion/pseuds/OohLaGalion), thank you so much (again) for beta-reading this fic <3  
> 

*****

**The Embrace of Winter**

*****

**Dale**

~

Whilst the sun had graced Thranduil with its presence, showering the ethereal being with its golden rays as he rode out of the ruins of Dale, it did not deem it necessary to pay the mortal inhabitants of Dale a lasting visit. As soon as the Elvenking was out of sight, dark clouds appeared on the sky again, announcing heavy snowfall and icy storms.

Just as predicted, the snow came, heavier than it had been in all the previous days. Silently, Bard hoped for a safe journey for the elf; too much hardship, too much loss had he had to endure already – there was no need for more adversity.

A winter storm raged against the walls, but the main room of Girion’s old mansion was warm from the crackling fire that burnt steadily, his three children filling the place with merriment and laughter. Their enduring optimism and childish delight warmed Bard’s heart just as the crackling flames did.

Snow fell.

The day Thranduil left.

The day after - and many more days to follow, covering the land in a thick blanket of ice.

Winter reigned with its icy guts and howling winds, keeping a firm grip on the inhabitants of Dale – it was the harshest winter in many years, possibly the harshest winter Bard’s children had ever experienced.

The sun had disappeared behind the enormous clouds that hung dangerously against the mountains, stretching endlessly across the horizon and casting the valley into freezing shadow. No matter how harsh the conditions were, the craftsmen still tried their best and worked restlessly on the countless ruins that would soon be homes again.

Where Bard once had delivered stinking fish under the strict surveillance of the Master, now he was responsible for advisory tasks, supervision and planning of the rebuilding of Dale – coordinating his people here and there, hurrying across the snow-covered streets in one direction and then in another.

Simply said, he was busy, busier than he had ever been.

 

**~~**

The craftsmen kept asking questions, presenting him with more arguments and ideas every time, and Bard would gladly discuss their ideas about the rebuilt of Dale, grateful for the infinite enthusiasm they showed.

Once, the settlement had been a splendid city, rich from trade with other folk, beautifully nestled against the towering mountains. And then the dragon had come, chasing away the remaining inhabitants towards the Long Lake, sitting on his hoard for many years.

It was not only Bard who dreamt to restore the city to its former beauty and wealth, finally leaving behind the hardship they had to endure under the Masters’ regency. Indeed, chances were high that they would be successful once winter lifted its silvery blanket from the fields – trade with both dwarves and elves would certainly flourish. The soil was fertile, and soon barley and oats would grow as far as the plain stretched, fish would be caught along the shores of the Long Lake and starvation would finally be overcome.

When Bard returned one night, walking through the almost deserted streets with snow swirling around him – tired and exhausted as he was – a youth spoke in a wistful voice of the rebuilt city, a kingdom of men whose inhabitants would grow great and live lives free of sorrow and hardship.

Involuntarily, a smile tugged at his lips.

The dreams and happiness of his people were what mattered most – a carefree life for his own children, a life where they could strive according to their talents and interests. That was all he lived for right now.

Carefully, he sneaked inside his house, detangling his hair from the woolen scarf and coat as cozy warmth and the smell of food embraced him. Aye, it was late already – long past midnight, Bard thought as he threw a blanket over the sleeping body of Tilda, who held her stuffed rabbit close to her heart. Then he proceeded to Sigrid’s and Bain’s room and placed a gentle good-night kiss onto their heads; both were already sound asleep in the cozy warmth of his house.

His family came first. His children’s well-being held the most importance, and never had Bard seen his three children happier than they were now. Despite the harsh winter, they did not have to freeze in the solid house where the wind did not howl through the narrow gaps, as it had in Lake Town. All of them had a sufficient amount of woolen clothes that kept them warm outside – and food. Enough food for three warm meals a day, a luxury none of them had ever and. Still, what apparently excited them most was the snow, those incredible amounts of snow – so much snow that Tilda built a new snowman every other day, right in front of their entrance door.

Life was wonderful!

Soon all their lives had settled back into a regular routine, Sigrid taking care of the household, watching over young Tilda and organizing a neighborly help for parents in need of external care for their children for a few hours; Bard was beyond proud of his eldest daughter! He was proud of Bain, too, the young man who accompanied him to meetings and helped the craftsmen rebuild the ruins. During the past two months, his son had grown and matured so much that it was frightening. He was slowly becoming an independent adult.

Of course, Bard tried to be at home for dinner most of the time, but often he came home so late that all of them were already asleep – just like today. At first, guilt had plagued him for neglecting his children. Sigrid wished to hear none of it.

 _‘Da!’_ she had exclaimed, standing tall and proud with her arms on her hips. _‘Look, what should ever happen? We have a solid house, we have food for nearly a month. Both Bain and I are taking care of Tilda. There is no ill-tempered and drunken Master anymore, Da. No-one who will torment us! We are safe, and now please stop worrying, will you?’_

Aye, she was right in every word she had said. The Master was finally gone, and – after all – now Bard was at least home every night, able to watch them sleep or simply do nothing after a stressful day. With a smile, he nodded at her and reluctantly stepped away into the adjoining room. Indeed, this was something Bard had found odd at first – he, who had never been able to keep his feet still, began to enjoy the quiet, the peaceful tranquility after a long and demanding day. Those hours were the only time of the day when he could allow his thoughts to roam freely – and often those thoughts trailed off in a very specific direction.

Sitting down in front of the open-hearth fireplace, listening to the crackling flames that warmed his exhausted body so pleasantly, usually holding a glass of Thranduil’s finest wine, which the Elvenking had given to him shortly before he had left. The wine was a deep scarlet, full-bodied and potent.

“Thranduil,” Bard sighed to himself as he took a careful sip of the dark red liquid that tasted so much like the proud and impetuous Elfking himself, of precious woods and wild berries with a subtle note of cinnamon hidden beneath the dominant taste of ripe grapes and tannin – alien but spell-binding.

During the day, whilst he was otherwise occupied, Bard didn’t have a moment to think about everything that had happened between them the night before the King of the Elves had left the ruins of Dale. Now, however, all the strangely familiar emotions, all the longings he had thought long dead within him came back to Bard – the wine, the flickering candles a constant reminder of the Elvenking’s tent.

It was foolish, Bard thought silently, but he missed him; he truly missed him more than he had missed anyone in many years. His smile, his gentle voice and skilful hands were burnt right into his mind, never to be forgotten again. When his eyes fell shut, Thranduil’s fair face appeared, and it was as if he was whispering to him, words Bard couldn’t understand but he listened to eagerly nonetheless, enjoying the softness of the elvish language, the touch of another’s skin against his own, warm and so alive – until distant sobbing from Tilda’s room could be heard, breaking the tranquil silence.

Immediately, Bard cast all the blissful and beautiful thoughts away and was on his feet not a moment later to see to his daughter’s needs.

**~~**

If Bard had thought he had been extraordinarily busy those past weeks, he was certainly mistaken.

A strange sickness had befallen half of the craftsman, two of his advisors, and Sigrid, who could not get out of bed anymore. When he had been forced to leave the house to attend to his regal duties, there was a blank expression on his daughter’s face, serene and lifeless to some extent.Not being able to take care of his sick daughter made his stomach turn, even if she had reassured him several times that all was well, Bain taking over her responsibilities along with Tilda. Instead of sitting at her bedside, Bard did the work of three in his office and helped the remaining craftsman whenever he could find the time to do so. At night, he watched over Sigrid’s troubled sleep until he collapsed from exhaustion besides her, night after night, until she finally seemed to recover the following morning. Strangely, though, her changed state was only the quiet before the storm. The gods were testing him that night, of that Bard was certain. Sigrid’s eyes were dull and lifeless, the fever higher than it had ever been before, and the healer only shrugged his shoulders.

“Sigrid,” Bard whispered in desperation, wiping away the sweat that covered her forehead “you must not leave us, listen to me, you MUST not!” He had already lost his beloved wife, he had failed the ones he had loved the most, having been unable to save his children’s mother.

He has never been one for prayer, but if there was a time to pray, Bard knew it was now – and he prayed with all his heart.

A week passed. And then another.

Whilst those who were first befallen with the sickness began to recover slowly, Sigrid among them, new illnesses were announced daily. At first, the symptoms resembled an ordinary cold, but soon the fever rose much higher than usual, leaving the infected weak for many days, bound to their beds. The doctors only shook their heads in confusion, having no explanation for the odd infections that lamed the entire kingdom.

As it had so often before before, help came in form of the elves and their skilled healers, supplying the people in desperate need with effective medicine and advice on how to proceed. A few weeks later, all the illnesses were cured and life went back to normal.

 

**~~**

As Bard lay in the bathtub, carefully washing out remains of week-old dirt and grime, his mind began to drift off immediately, remembering the blissful nights he had spent in the Elvenking’s tent before and after the battle. In the daytime, being occupied with coordinating Dale’s reconstruction, taking care of his sick daughter, and fulfilling his new role as the legitimate king of his people, he did not have a moment for himself, yet alone to think of the otherworldly creature.

But late at night, when his children were sound asleep, the memories began to overwhelm him.

No matter how ridiculous he deemed his own thoughts, he had to admit that he truly missed the elf in every way imaginable – his touch, his knowing and utterly seductive smirk, the gentle words that fell so easy from his perfect lips. There were times, when Bard sat in front of the crackling hearth, when he still couldn’t quite believe that any of what had happened between them had been real, but then again, the softly spoken words echoed in his mind.

 _‘I hope the winter will be short, as I much desire to speak with you again,’_ the Elvenking had said with a generous and honest smile, shortly before he had bid him his formal goodbye in front of his own people. _‘Farewell, meleth-nîn, until I can repay your hospitality in my own vast halls.’_

In Bard’s reverie, Thranduil’s fingertips mapped every inch of his skin, the taut muscles that lay beneath it, his rosy lips following the journey of his hands until the man bucked and squirmed in response to the divine.

At times, when fatigue seemed to overwhelm him, he imagined nuzzling his head into the warmth of his immortal lover. Somehow it was much warmer in Thranduil’s bed than it was in his own, despite the fire that burned day and night, the rich furs absorbing the heat and slowly releasing it hour after hour. Absently, his hands curled into fists around the delicate nightshirt the elf had worn.

With a blissful sigh, Bard closed his eyes, drowsiness overcoming him after a long day of work, lulling him into sweet slumber in Girion’s old but now renovated armchair. Even if Thranduil was not present, Bard inhaled the smell of him, the distinct mixture of moss after a heavy spring rain and precious woods – fragrances he had never truly smelled in his life, dealing mostly with dirt, grime and stinky fish.

But now he wasn’t Bard the Bargeman anymore, but rightful King of Dale – even if he couldn’t care less about his royal status; all that mattered was that he, and especially his children and people, had enough to eat to endure the harsh winter. Aye, certain amenities were definitely to his liking – like a solid house, the open fires that burnt relentlessly, and of course the private bath that was now his own; but apart from that, not much had changed, at least not in Bard’s mind.

His rightfulness had persisted through the first months of kingship and it would persist through all the years to come, following the silent vow he had taken after his coronation.

With every inch of snow that added to the closed snow cover, Bard’s longing for the elf grew; he missed him, odd as I might sound. Bard truly missed him with every fiber of his body, with every cold winter night that embraced him. Every thought he had about the proud King of the Elves elicited a shiver, setting a hundred butterflies loose in his stomach. And from time to time he thought himself utterly ridiculous: he, a grown man in his best years, father of three, feeling like a love-sick adolescent again. More appropriately, this should be Sigrid’s or Bain’s territory, yet they concentrated on their daily work.

 

It was, even for him who always was awake before the sun rose, extraordinarily early on a cold morning in the end of January when the haze that hung over Dale was pierced by the first rays of daylight as the sun crawled its way above the horizon, showering the ruins with light as it washed the tranquil night away.

Bard couldn’t remember when last he had seen the sun; the winter had been extraordinarily strong and unrelenting in its assault this year, covering the landscape under a thick blanket of ice. Restless the night had been – he had stirred and tossed in his sleep, dreaming vividly, plagued by nightmares even, and when he woke up for the fifth time that night, Bard decided he would try it no more and dressed himself.

Quickly, he grabbed the bag hung at the wardrobe and hefted it over his shoulder before he pushed the door open and stepped outside into the frozen night.

 _‘Oh what wonder,’_ Bard thought, as the snow was still falling, the streets covered with an unspoiled whiteness. His boots sank deep into the snow as he walked towards the stable, and he couldn’t help but shake his head, wondering about his own decision. Something drew him outdoors, although he couldn’t tell exactly what it was. No matter how much he thought about it, he didn’t have a sufficient explanation why he had sneaked outside into the night like a thief, saddling his horse in the darkness.

Slowly, he let his horse trot through the narrow streets of the city not to disturb the sleeping inhabitants, but he spurred the animal on as soon as they were on the open fields. Snow cracked and crunched beneath the hooves, soft petals swirling around them, falling from the sky, swirling upwards from the ground, a hollow cloud of ice following them as they rode on and on, until they reached the base of the hills.

Bard dismounted silently and waded through knee-deep snow, ascending the steep slope step by step, tiny pearls of ice crystals forming in his beard, soft snowflakes melting against his warm cheeks, his lips. A frosty embrace of icy air and howling wind welcomed him not a second later than he had reached the peak, snowflakes swirling relentlessly before his eyes, catching themselves in his beard, in his dark strands, settling peacefully down on his woolen coat. It was deadly cold, but Bard did not freeze – or simply ignored the sharp wind that reddened his cheeks.

For a brief moment he stood still like a frozen statue, catching his breath. And then, the snowfall stopped all of a sudden and it was as if something was missing; the snow had been another constant in his life, just as kingship had become, and he could hardly believe that it was now gone. Simultaneously, the haze that hung over the lands wavered away, disappearing as if it had been pulled away by invisible hands. Bard’s eyes widened as the ancient ruins of Dale were revealed right before him. The large hill behind the striving city annunciated the dark-greyish houses against the endless sea of white. It was his city, his kingdom – and that of his people who sought their happiness in it.

Bard exhaled slowly, allowing the scenery to settle in his mind. The valley almost looked ethereal, unreal in the twilight of the early morning against the flurries of snow – Dale stood like a city long forgotten. Dead, he would think if he didn’t know better. Soon the settlement would be bustling with life again, people hurrying down across the streets, children playing and squealing upon the mass of fresh snow.

Still, he was well aware of the fact that it was only a momentary break, lulling the mortal inhabitants into a treacherous sense of security. In the north, many leagues behind the lonely mountain, massive clouds were forming against the spurs of the Grey Mountains, announcing another winter storm that would shroud the trees with snow, blanketing the ruins and pathways with white ice.

For a brief moment his gaze lingered, and he watched the clouds grow and change their appearance, before he tilted his head to the side, looking westwards towards the enormous forest that stretched endlessly into the land.

Thranduil’s forest, his kingdom, ancient as the world itself.

Black it was against the white of its surroundings, dark like the turning of the times, when all light is hidden from the shadows that came from an unending night. Calm like the silence before the dangerous storm.

Bard rubbed his eyes, and again soft golden rays fell onto the edge of the forest in the distance, creating an illusion of a white figure against the darkness of the trees, long pale hair flowing in the icy wind that carried strange voices towards him.

 _‘This cannot be,’_ Bard exhaled as he stared, mesmerized and transfixed. Another dark cloud veiled the sun again, and not a second later the white figure was gone, disappeared into the vast forest.

Bard wasn’t superstitious, nor did he believe in otherworldly phenomena, his logic telling him that the surreal light in combination with the soft snow had caused the halo to appear. He dismissed the thought right away, casting rationality aside.

For a brief moment, Bard allowed himself to believe in magic.

 

The cold, snow-covered land surrounding him was eerily silent as ever as he rode back into Dale, but the world in Bard’s mind was alive, burning with emotions and desire.

 

**~~**

Despite the hardship which his people had to endure, plagued by cold and sickness, the reconstruction of Dale progressed beautifully, due in large part to the help that constantly came from the Thranduil’s folk in terms of food and other supplies. Even if nothing would ever happen between him and the King of the Elves again, apart from formal meetings of course, Bard would remain forever grateful for everything Thranduil had done for his people. Without the self-less and generous help of the immortal folk, his kin would have been sentenced to death by starvation long ago.

The old resentment towards the otherworldly beings that had passed down from generation to generation finally began to break apart as the elves became a pleasant constant in their lives; they brought wood for their warming fires, medicine for the sick and children, food – so much delicious and fresh food. At times even wine was among the supplies. They feared and admired the elves’ blonde king alike, but Bard had never caught anybody speaking ill of him on the streets they had done before.

Blessedly! After all, Thranduil was his most important ally.

From time to time, when Feren or another elf he was already familiar with appeared in Dale, Bard tried to get away from his usual duties for an hour or two to discuss rather informal matters; but it wasn’t the only reason why he desired to speak with Thranduil’s folk.

Something that he couldn’t explain entirely drew him near them, and often he was satisfied just listening when they spoke with each other; their alien language held a strange fascination, and one evening, over a glass of finest Dorwinion wine, he had indeed asked Feren if he would teach him a word or two.

At first the dark-haired elf had hesitated, apparently not often was something like this demanded of him, but when Bard repeated his wish, he had sat down with him until late at night, reviewing vocabulary like a teacher.

Bard wished to ask how their king is doing, too, but in this matter he didn’t dare to voice his curiosity aloud, fearing he would put the other elf in an awkward situation. Thranduil could be unforgiving, and even if Bard did not know if Feren knew exactly what had transpired between them before the great battle, he assumed as much.

Luck was on his side that night, it seemed. “No, he is—” Feren began as if he could read Bard’s mind, only to stop in hesitation. Should he actually speak about such things without having obtained his King’s permission?

“He is?” Bard inquired, his dark eyes glittering in anticipation and curiosity.

“If you must be so curious, King of Dale, I won’t refuse your wish. Given the circumstances, all is well,” said Feren, removing a strand of brown hair that had gone astray back behind his pointed ear. “But as you may have assumed yourself already, the loss of many of his people during battle, followed by the departure of his only child was not lightly forgotten. I fear he is lonely, King of Dale, now that the only constant in his life has left him behind to wander the wilderness.”

Indeed, Bard had assumed as much, yet he was still glad that nothing graver had happened on their journey back. “Hannon le, Feren, for the information. I am not religious, but I might pray every once in a while that the goddamn snow melts quicker.”

“Your prayers will be highly appreciated, be assured.” With the last word spoken, the dark-haired elf offered a small bow of courtesy towards the men and mounted his horse. “Novaer, Bard of Dale.”

“Farewell, Feren,” replied Bard with a broad smile, letting more of his internal happiness shine trough. He wondered if Thranduil thought of him, at least every once in a while, dearly hoped that the answer was yes – somehow he had the feeling that the elf indeed did, and it made him all the more happy.

On easy feet he walked back towards his mansion, kicking against a pile of snow so that the chunks flew in every direction, hissing, “GO. AWAY.”

And then he laughed at his own foolishness, heartily and completely at ease as warm sunshine caressed his face.

Life was good, indeed.

 

**~~**

Two weeks later, as the snow was finally beginning to melt away, a sharp knock sounded on the door of his private study, making Bard look up from the mass of paperwork that was piled on his desk.

A messenger from the Woodland Realm appeared as he opened the door, formally handing over a sealed letter without speaking a single word.

*****

 

 


	5. Winter, so unspeakably Winter

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In contrast to Bard, Thranduil fares entirely different since his return to his cavernous halls.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> unbeta'd
> 
>  **MUSIC:** The title of this chapter is based on the translation of the album "Adversus - Winter, so unsagbar Winter" - which i really really love and so perfectly fits this chapter and Thranduil's emotions (WARNING: depressing themes throughout the album, if you're sensitive towards this. However, it's in German so you most likely won't understand too much)

*****

**Winter, so unspeakably Winter**

*****

**Mirkwood**

~

It was long past midnight when Thranduil awoke covered in sweat and panting heavily, shaken from his slumber again by troubled dreams and nightly visions; often, actually ever since his return to his cavernous halls, he was plagued by haunting nightmares, robbing him of his sleep on a regular basis. Oh how he wished they would become less frequent as time progressed, but no matter how much time passed, how much wine he consumed to chase the foul thoughts away, the trouble to find any sleep remained unchanged.

He closed his eyes tightly, cursing the Master of Dreams in silence for the dreadful visions he was given; ghosts of dead elves, and slain soldiers soaked in their own blood appeared and vanished, images of severely injured bodies with swirling snowflakes dancing around them, the risk of death hanging heavily in the air, palpable and dangerous.

 _‘Legolas’_ it escaped him, and he couldn’t distinguish if he had said the word aloud or if it had been a fragment of another dream. Nevertheless, he pulled the blanket tighter around his shivering body. Equally dreadful visions had haunted him since the Battle of the Last Alliance, the day when he had lost his father to Sauron’s deadly assault on the Plains of Dagorlad, the day when succession had claimed him, giving him the crown he had never wanted.

 

_________________________

Life will never be the same again.

Where once his halls had been filled with laughter and joy, they now seemed heavy and veiled in uncomfortable silence.

Where his evenings had been once filled with the company of his only child and high ranked advisors and soldiers Thranduil now preferred solitude – and wine. He had always been fond of the potent Dorwinion, which was served in his halls, but now he was overly fond of the potent draught, hoping to shoo the sad feelings away, drowning himself in his misery of his lost son, drowning himself in the blissful memories he had taken back from Dale.

Memories of flickering candle light, foreign scents, and arousing touches.

He was alone – and lonely. And rather often drunk to an unhealthy extent, making his mood become even more unpredictable.

Soon after his return from the ruins of Dale, his own realm went back to its usual business; border patrols swarmed out to fight the corrupted creatures spawning from Dol Guldur, the forest itself was sick as it had been when he had left - with the difference that it was now covered by a thick blanket of frost.

The scenery was surreal, chasing away the dread to some extent, the softness of the snow covering the sickened soil that lay beneath.

 _‘A treacherous illusion,’_ Thranduil thought in silence as his gaze wandered over the forest far into the distance where he knew Laketown had fallen into ashes, where Smaug’s dead body lay beneath the ice that covered the Long Lake.

Regular meetings were held in his council chambers, advisors asked for his valued opinion, and Thranduil kept himself busy during the day with massive amounts of paper work whenever time permitted to keep the sadness at bay; the evenings and nights however, were a different matter entirely.

He missed his son, and he desperately hoped that Legolas fared well, even if he knew a dangerous path lay before him.

He missed Bard, too.

His rumbling laughter, the warm skin against his own, the careful but so utterly endearing hesitation the man had shown on their very first night. Soon, hesitation had melted away like the flickering candles in his tent as his lust was set ablaze in the cold winter night.

Thranduil had not missed a person to such an extent in many centuries – now he had to cope with two losses, hoping deep inside both were only permanently.

Never, not as long as he lived his immortal life, he would forget all the emotions that soared through him as he had hasted towards Ravenhill, the fear of finding his beloved son dead on the cold stones of this forsaken place. For long moments he had halted, standing deadly still to gather himself. He drew in a deep and steady breath – and then another, but no matter how hard he tried, his hands would not stop shaking and his heart would not stop racing.

The piercing shrieks of Sauron’s foul creatures had long ceased, as had the dreadful screams of the dying elves and men; the world lay deadly calm before him as his gaze wandered across the devastated plain that lay in front of Erebor’s great doors. His son, his heir – his precious child, the only memory that reminded of his wife who had died so many centuries ago. His eyes narrowed as an entrance came into his view, scarlet red mingling with the black blood of the orcs - the stench was nearly unbearable by now. A stench that so much reminded him of the dreadful battle when his father had fallen, the battle that had made him king millennia ago, giving him a forsaken crown he had never wanted. Tears began to form in his eyes as his gaze fell onto his dead kin, and with every hurried step he took he so much hoped that Legolas had survived; no parent should ever bury their child.

When he finally found him, Legolas was alive! And nearly unharmed! With words alone it was indescribable what relief had rushed through him in that very moment, and tears began to flow freely across his reddened cheeks. “Ion-nín,” whispered Thranduil with shaking voice, “you are alive.”

That was all that mattered. Certainly, Thranduil had wished that Legolas would return to his cavernous halls, however, he could understand his son’s motives to leave the kingdom in search of his own destiny. He must not like his decision, but he had to accept it – and so he had with sadness. Something deep inside told him, that Legolas has safely reached the Dunedain and all was well.

Still, the ghosts of dead elves and men, Legolas among them, often walked his dreams and chilled him to his bones.

 

_________________________

Day after day passed in solitude, a week stretched into many months – that was at least how Thranduil felt, and where he once had hoped that life would get better after a while, he was certainly mistaken.

The sadness and melancholy remained, the regular reports of his men from Dale being occasional highlights of his day.

Aye, he simply could have paid the striving city himself a visit, after all they were allies and help frequently came from his realm during the harsh winter, but then, he did not wish to interfere in their daily life. After all, he knew what building a new kingdom meant, how busy everybody was, having it witnessed with his father many centuries ago.

Did Bard occasionally think of him, the elf wondered?

Did he miss him like he did miss him?

Or was everything that had come to pass between them was all too lightly forgotten?

Often it was said that mortals loved differently than elves did, something Thranduil had never paid too much notice himself; his contacts with the mortal race of men had been sparse all those years, and whenever it was possible he had let his trusted advisors deal with the slimy and unpleasant Master of Laketown.

Instead of responding to the pile of letters which decorated his table in his private study, Thranduil stood at the massive window with his gaze drifting over the snow covered forest and his mind followed immediately, wandering off far away; to a carefree and happy life, towards his son – towards Bard.

“My lord,” a familiar voice interrupted his musings, and Thranduil was certain that he had overheard the several knocks against the heavy door which certainly had come previously. “There are bad tidings from Dale to report.”

On this Thranduil spun around, facing Feren who tried to catch his breath. Apparently he had hurried towards him as soon as the news had reached him.

“Go on, then,” he urged, trying to keep his voice calm, and indeed, to some extent he succeeded but within him fear and worries exploded uncontrolled. If the other would seek him out in his private quarters something severe must have happened. Another attack of Sauron’s foul creatures? A snowstorm so harsh that the ruins had collapsed beneath its heaviness? Oh please not, he prayed with reeling mind.

“A sickness has befallen many of them,” Feren began to explain what he had heard only moments ago, “and apparently many of them are infected – half of Dale’s inhabitants so far it is said. They treat the sick with their own medicine and healers, but Bard had said that they have reached their limits, and no improvement can be seen.”

“Is he well?” Thranduil interrupted, not bothering to distinguish of whom he was talking about.

“He is,” responded Feren, carefully choosing his words. Their rather unusual relationship during the elves stay in Dale had not been lost on him, but he was not certain if Thranduil was aware that half of the kingdom knew. “His daughter is severely ill, and therefore he is beyond troubled.”

“Send all help that we can offer,” Thranduil commanded with narrowed eyes,“take our best healers and additional food. Do everything that is in our power to help them.”

Oh he was desperately hoping that their own healers might be able to cure the sickness that seemed to be so grave and beyond their abilities.

Feren gave him a brief and formal nod before he continued to speak: “I will forward your order, aran-nín.” _(my king)_

“Hannon le, Feren,” Thranduil said, dismissing him with a gesture of his hand.

Company of any sort was the last thing on earth he wished for with his troubled mind. No sickness may assail the Firstborn, but they were common among the Edaín and he dearly wished that his own people had the knowledge to cure them.

Enough hardship Dale’s inhabitants had faced the previous months, there was no need for more, especially not for something which could end their lives so easily!

Mirkwood’s king was torn - So much he wished to ride out and offer help himself, comfort the one he missed so much in his hardship, but at the same time he knew that this was all but wise. Their relationship – if it even was one – was a secret dalliance without any public knowledge and whilst such things were treated with indifference among the elves, he was not entirely certain of what Bard’s people would say. After all, the man had hinted occasional bits and pieces throughout their meetings all these weeks back.

Weeks seemed to stretch into an endless eternity and whenever possible, he informed himself about Dale’s situation, and if he spoke with Feren also about Bard’s and his family’s well-being. An entire month passed until the sickness was finally cured and Dale’s reconstruction went back to normal.

Thranduil was relieved; both for Bard’s situation and that nobody had died throughout the disease.

 

_________________________

Slowly, ever so slowly, the days finally began to stretch longer and in between the heavy snowstorms the rays of sun made occasionally a sparse appearance. Golden rays tickled against the king’s ivory skin when he stood on his balcony to let his gaze wander over the vast dimensions of his forest.

Somewhere, far away, Legolas was out there, and he dearly hoped that he had found the Dunedaín he had him to search for. Thranduil knew them - they were strange, wandering folk but decent and righteous, and Legolas would be safe and happy with them. After all he was as much child of the forest as Thranduil was himself. However, not a single day had passed where he had not prayed to the gods he didn’t held all too dear in his heart and mind that a notice from his only child would come – each day he had hoped in vain and sadness made his heart and mind heavy.

 

Another night – a night like so many before where Thranduil could not find any rest, or even sleep.

The candles have long burnt down in his spacious sleeping chambers, the fire in the hearth only glooming in the faintest red, and slowly cold began to sneak through the heavy stone walls walls. Instead of shunning the frost, he embraced it as it reflected so much his own, strange mood. Aye, he pulled the heavy velvet sheets upwards, curling up underneath them but he couldn’t be bothered to relight the fire again. Instead of sinking into slumber, his thoughts began to drift off, to a time when he had been a carefree adolescent, an ordinary elf among many others, an elf without a title nor a crown; often he had wandered the vast forests around Doriath, stayed away – much to his father’s distress - many nights to find rest under the star-spangled sky, bathing in the moonlight under heavenly soothing waterfalls, being at peace until the world would end.

He missed these days, he always had, but now the emotions were stronger than they had been in many centuries!

Without giving his ridiculous idea a second thought, he rose from the bed in the middle of the night and began to dress himself properly for the journey through ice and snow; soon he was clad in heavy riding garments and a silvery woolen coat. In comparison to his usual rather fancy appearance those clothes certainly lacked the intriguing craftsmanship of his silken robes, but entirely served their purpose. Neither crown nor jewelry adorned his head and fingers – for once he wished to be nothing more than an ordinary elf, who could leave all his duties behind for a few hours of solitude. No guards, no convoy would accompany him through his ride through the wintery landscape; no, he would not even tell anyone where he was going, mostly because he did not even knew himself.

A shiver crept down his spine, and for the first time in many ages, Thranduil froze in the firm embrace of the cold when he stepped outside the great gate of his cavernous kingdom.

Soundlessly he passed by a row of dark windows, following the narrow path that led from his halls towards the stables. Deadly calm the first hours of the new day were, all seemed to be asleep expect of him and the horses who greeted him when he entered. Since his beloved moose had died during the perilous battle, an ordinary white steed had to be sufficient for the purpose.  

Saddle and other aids where dispensable, the steed easily followed his voice command alone. Deep into the snow-covered forest illuminated by the obscure twilight of the moon, the path led, snow swirling beneath them, snowflakes falling down from above, catching themselves his flowing hair. Swift as the cold wind he rode, the horse following the silent words; Thranduil had no idea why he had chosen the path he took, but soon enough he found himself at the edge of his forest, the end of his kingdom where his powers of enchantment were barely there anymore.

“Finally,” Thranduil whispered into the tranquility at the edge of the forest, when the first daylight broke through the dark and dense clouds, “this is the turning of the times, when light stops hiding from the shadows, chasing away the fear of unending nights.” His gaze wandered along the ice desert in front of him that led to Dale, the massive plain that lay right before him. Smoke arose from the re-built city, people began most likely to prepare for the day. “Soon, winter will yield to spring and spring will yield to summer, soon the sun will wake the earth from its slumber,” he continued rather absently as his mind began to imagine what Bard would do at such an unruly hour of the day. “So it always was, so it has always been.” Most likely Bard and his children would be still soundly asleep – or he would prepare breakfast for his beloved children in a cozy kitchen.

Continuously Thranduil’s gaze drifted along the houses, along the streets and further upwards towards the mountain ridge that towered in the near distance behind the city.

Although snowflakes swirled before his eyes, and the wind howled as ever, his vision was clear as it always had been. “This cannot be,” whispered the elf in sheer disbelief. No, they didn’t share any bond or mental link that would allow a silent communication, but there was unmistakably a figure in the distance gazing into the direction of where he stood.

What madness was this? Thranduil asked himself, rubbing his eyes and his cheeks that were soaking wet. Snowflakes had melted and were running down his cheeks, over his lips, just in the same way as his silent tears had fallen so many nights. When he next looked, the figure was still standing exactly at the same position, and something deep inside told him that this was no ordinary scout, but the King of Dale himself.

Joyous sparks flared in his body, and for the first time for many weeks he felt confident, and somehow at ease as the gentle rays of light caressed his ivory skin.

 

_________________________

With every day that passed, the rays of the sun became a little stronger and the heavy blanket of ice began to melt, winter did indeed yield to spring and Thranduil’s heart leapt in joy and excitement, the awkward sensation of a tingling stomach he had long thought forgotten. Once spring was predictable, he would sent an official invitation to the new King of Dale – often had he said so - and now that this day had finally arrived, he could do as he had promised. Strangely, and very unlike him, he felt a surge of nervousness rush through him as he picked up the ornamented quill and began to write the formal invitation, which Feren would soon deliver.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As always, feedback would be lovely (i will be going on holidays soon, and won't be able to reply to comments before I come back, just to let you know that i am not ignoring you)


	6. The Old Elvenroad

**Chapter 06 – The Old Elvenroad**

*****

**_Dale – Bard’s Mansion_ **

Bard has never ventured much farther into the forest than the pond where he usually had collected the empty barrels from the Woodland Realm, remembering the childhood tales which never failed to both pique his curiosity nor to elicit a shiver.

 _‘Do not venture into the forest,’_ his mother had said, _‘it is a forest full of mysteries, strange beasts roam there at night; old as the earth itself it is, dangerous, Bard. Never go there, promise this to me.’_

Even as an adult, long grown up and having a family of his own for years, he had stayed true to the promise he had once made as a child, even if he had always been curious what would await him there.

Beasts?

Elves that stole mortal children?

Those bawdy tales that were told in the shabby taverns late at night?

Ridiculous at best, if not outrightly insane!

In silence he mused, however, _‘full of mysteries’_ could be indeed possible, because the King of the Elves was a strange mystery himself, so otherworldly, so ethereal in everything he did – so perhaps his forest too was filled with countless mysteries?

Winter had finally yielded to spring, and Bard was sitting in front of the ever burning hearth with a goblet of elvish wine (naturally) in his hand – exactly thirteen days ago King Thranduil’s invitation had arrived, but after that no other information had reached his ears and he could not help himself to at least worry just a little. After all, he had organized a great many things for the journey he would make; he had announced one of his most trusted advisor as temporary head of the council and responsible for everything in his stead, had personally looked over the reconstruction of Dale once more, and had asked his wife’s sister if she could take care of his children when he would travel to the Elvenking’s vast halls deeply hidden in the mysterious forest.

Of course she would, after all she had always helped him out whenever it was possible and necessary.

 _‘Da! We want to see the elves, too’_ Tilda had said, giving him a pouting look, _‘Why can’t we go with you?’_

The look his youngest child had given him was heartbreaking and for seconds, Bard had swayed upon the pleading words. However, he simply deemed it too early to take his children to the Elvenking’s halls. A great many things of which he himself was not entirely certain had remained undiscussed between them, what there actually existed between them, and additionally he did not know how Thranduil would react towards a bunch of children accompanying him, especially after his own child had chosen a different path.

It simply was not right to bring them alone when he did not even know if they were invited – but he could hardly explain this to young Tilda, could he?

 _‘Nay, my dear,’_ he had responded, lowering himself down onto his knees until he was on eyelevel with her _‘important business do I have to discuss with the Elvenking, and I do not know how long and tedious the negotiations would last, and the palace is hardly a place where you can roam the corridors on your own as it pleases you.’_

She listened closely but did not seem entirely convinced because in her head Thranduil’s halls were an endless adventure playground with hidden chambers, towering bridges of tone and gushing waterfalls which lead just to another hidden chamber; all this could be entirely be blamed on Feren though, Bard did not know what Thranduil’s captain had thought by telling her such blatant fantasy stories. Naturally, she wished to see the wondrous palace with her own eyes.

 _‘Tilda, you remember that I have told you that Legolas, the Elvenking’s only child had decided not to return to his father’s palace after the battle?’_ She nodded in confirmation, so Bard had continued, _‘certainly Thranduil still grieves upon the loss and contemplates with his son’s choice as I would do when all of you would decide to leave me. I am afraid that your presence would tear the slowly healing wound open anew.’_

Something was working behind her blue eyes and at the end she had nodded, adding: _‘Although we would never leave you, Da!’_

And so he had taken them earlier this day to his sister-in-law, without much protest which still amazed him to some extent, especially from Tilda’s side. After all, Bard knew just how fascinated she was by the otherworldly appearance of the woodland folk.

Strangely empty the house seemed now, almost deserted and lifeless, a state which had not happened in a long while, and actually Bard had to force himself to embrace the odd silence, and as so often the potent wine certainly helped. So many words and questions began to occupy his head, so many things he wished to say to the Elvenking he had shared his bed with; months had passed between they had said their good-byes in the ruins of Dale, ruins that by now were mostly rebuilt and if he was honest he had not the slightest idea what would await him in the vast palace that the Elvenking’s halls were said to be.

It made him nervous, as he had not the slightest idea what would await him there. Thranduil’s letter of invitation had been vague, VERY vague and he did not even know how long he was supposed to stay as his guest, what was expected of him, what clothes he should bring, and so on. Usually, Bard could not be bothered to think of such trivialities, but oddly now he found himself thinking about what he should wear during his stay, when a voice behind him whispered: “at best – nothing.”

Bard spun around, but – naturally! – he was alone in his room.

 

* * *

 

**_Thranduil’s Halls – Mirkwood_ **

The days after he had sent out the invitation to Bard Thranduil’s mood had brightened noticeably, and the spell-binding gleam in his stunning eyes was back for once, Feren noticed but remained quiet on the matter. With several tasks in regard to Bard’s visit he found himself occupied with, stretching from overseeing the preparations of the long-abandoned guest chambers to other little, but not less important matters, and constantly, Thranduil required his presence around him, ordering him this and that. No wonder it was that these obligations fell into his responsibilities as he had often visited the rebuilt city in the past, and was at least a little familiar with the new King of Dale. Gladly he embraced the novel tasks, as they did mean Thranduil finally slipped out – at least a little – from his melancholic state of mind; in fact for the first time in many moons he beamed with radiance.

 _‘A feast?’_ Feren had asked with a certain disbelief when Thranduil had announced his plans to let a grand festivity being held upon the King of Dale’s arrival, _‘pardon me, my king, to voice my concerns but I doubt that Bard is, well: a person to find joy in idle small talk and formalities,’_ Other feasts existed among the Silvan elves, mostly seasonal festivities such as Midsummer or the Great Harvest Feast, but neither was it the season for it nor had Feren ever heard of a mortal man participating in any of the sacred rites. As Thranduil had remained silent he added: _‘and pardon me once again: but with all the insights I have obtained during my visits to the human settlement, I think he much more would anticipate spending a few hours in private, away from his own duties as regent.’_

Dangerous ground he was treading on, Feren knew, but the said festivity would certainly be not to Bard’s liking – nor to Thranduil’s own.

 _‘You might be right, no feast, then,’_ Thranduil had said more to himself than to Feren, playing absently with the silver goblet that seemed to be glued to his hand the past months, and a sigh of relief nearly slipped across his lips, _‘take my best men for I do not wish to let any harm come to him whilst his travels’_

 _‘Your order shall be heeded,’_ responded Feren with a nod.

With a gesture of his hand Thranduil dismissed his loyal man, and indulged himself completely into savoring the potent wine on his tongue once more. Many millennia old he was by now, had experienced every possible situation that could ever exist, yet slowly but deliberately threads of nervousness seemed to grow through every inch of his body. He missed him, he had always missed him in those cold winter nights, but where he could wholeheartedly indulge into the wonderful memories he had taken back from the ruins of Dale, now soon the day came when he would have to deal with Bard’s thoughts and ideas, his dreams.

What if he regretted what they have done?

What if he did not regret what they have done but did not wish to continue it?

What if he had found another during the many cold winter nights?

**_What if ….?_ **

****

* * *

****

**_Dale – Bard’s Mansion_ **

The first rays of the sun appeared on the horizon, slowly spreading across the plains that lay before Dale; for many hours Bard was awake already, and if he was honest he had not slept barely more than a few hours, if it was that much at all. The elves’ wine had not lulled him into deep slumber as it had done so often before, had not embraced him with the coziness and warmth of a burning flame rushing through his veins.

A hard knock was bestowed upon his wooden door, and then another, and hastily Bard rushed to the door to open it, ready to greet Feren or another elf of equal rank. What he was not prepared to see, however, was Feren with at least ten other elves, all heavily armed.

“Errr,” Bard said, rubbing his beard as his gaze traveled from one elf to another who all stood behind Feren, “good morning. Am I going to be arrested?” he asked with a laugh. The longer he kept thinking the more ridiculous he found the entire scenery and for once he was glad that he had already sent the children away the day before. Aye, given his rank and status after the Battle of Five Armies he had expected a little escort, maybe two elves or so, who would accompany him towards the Elvenking’s halls; certainly that would have been entirely sufficient. But this? Nay, inwardly he shook his head upon such a waste of manpower.

“Good morning to you as well, King of Dale,” Feren responded in the common tongue, his voice soft and almost indifferent as always, “and nay: orders from the King. Safety precautions. The forest is still sick and corrupted, we cannot risk harm coming to you.” There was an almost apologetic note in the elf’s voice and silent pleading hushed through the greenish eyes, saying _‘only our orders we do fulfill; please do not question his decision further – at least not openly.’_ And so Bard refrained to let his curiosity reign, but simply nodded.

He had already packed his belongings the night before, had securely stored them in two saddlebags and indeed he had wondered what to take on this alien journey. As much as the elves had become a constant in Dale’s city, their ways in their own kingdom had always remained a secret to him and all others.

“Do you have gathered your belongings?” Feren asked politely without haste or hesitation, and without making a move to step inside, how Bard should have possibly offered.

“Aye,” Bard said, bestowing another scratch against his beard. Even if he was used to the Woodland Elves in his town by now, has met Feren on several occasions he still remained an unsolvable mystery to him. “this I have.”

Despite the warmth of the sun, cold wind blew into his face as he stepped outside and securely locked the massive door behind him. “I will be back in a moment,” he offered when he passed by Feren, “have to retrieve my horse.”

For the first time it was, as if a smile played upon the elf’s fair features, as he said: “Naturally. I doubt you desire to walk the distance.”

 

 

* * *

 

**The Old Elvenroad**

The horse was quickly fetched and mounted, and no later they began their journey. At such unruly hour of the day, the streets of Dale were nearly deserted and to some extent, Bard was grateful for it. Although his position and rank as King of Dale suggested, nay nearly demanded such an escort, it did not make him like it more, but he knew he had to accept it nevertheless – and after all – the Elvenking caring so much for his safe arrival charmed him, at least a little. For a while they rode in silence, a few of the Mirkwood Elves riding ahead of them, then came Feren and Bard and at a safe distance the rest of the escort behind them.

Not long ago, endless seas of white stretched across the land as far as his eyes could see, and now it almost seemed as if tiny spots of green already broke through the wet soil, finally announcing the long awaited beginning of spring.

 _‘Nature is truly a marvelous thing,’_ Bard thought silently as his gaze wandered along the land – his land. Land that soon would be cultivated again by his people, making certain that the pain of starvation would soon become a distant memory for them, a tale of old spoken about during cold winter nights.

When they reached the secluded entrance which lead deep into the forest towards its heart, Feren’s horse came to a sudden halt, and the elf announced: “Welcome to Mirkwood, Bard, Rightful King of Dale,” he said not without a certain pride, after all the enchanted forest was his home, and possibly had always been, “Realm of King Thranduil Oropherion and his people.”

Delicately crafted statues – a male and a female elf, both covered with moss and ivy – stood on each side of the narrow road, and for moments Bard admired the craftmansship; he couldn’t help but wonder who they were but he did not dare ask.

Odd at first the twilight darkness was, but not entirely unpleasant Bard had to admit, even if his eyes needed a while to adjust to the alien light.

Sunlight filtered through the leaf-less branch canopy, gushing softly onto the moss covered forest ground where every now and then old snow had still survived, painting the forest into soft shades of gold as they rode deeper into the heart of the forest. The closer they got to the Elvenking’s halls the more _‘normal’ –_ unaffected _-_ the forest seemed to appear, free of cobwebs and sickened trees; however, Bard found himself unable to distinguish if his mind was not trapped in a beautiful illusion; Thranduil’s power and magic was still strong, probably the only reason why the kingdom did still exist.

Bard’s thoughts went here and there, admiring the trees which were unbeknown by him, forming a speech in his head (a thought he soon dismissed, he simply was not good at it), travelling to a specific night when his world was turned upside down, and there for long moments his thoughts remained, recalling every subtle touch, every word that seemed to be etched into his mind – at the end it was Feren’s voice who startled him out of his musings, and Bard was not entirely certain if the elf had not read his mind.

“Thranduil’s heart and his very soul is deeply entangled with this forest, connected to each other by an invisible and eternal bond, his spirit entwined with every tree and every flower blossoming amidst the leaf-less trees, his magic running through every stream and little river,” In awe, Bard listened to Feren’s words. He knew that a certain connection existed between the Elvenking and the forest he lived in, but he had never known, never even dared to assume that their connection ran so deeply and he was grateful that Feren had decided to share his precious knowledge with him. In fact and despite the elf’s distant behavior at the beginning he had been nothing but friendly towards him. “It is his lung, his breath of life and love of old, sacred and divine - and as the wood suffers, the King does. He is the forest, and the forest is him,” he added with a heavy sigh, a sigh which implied many things.

A long silent began to stretch between them, and the words rang heavily in Bard’s ear.

“He has never told you…” stated Feren after a while, perhaps desiring to resume their conversation.

“Nay,” Bard admitted, and he did not know if he should feel hurt, but he immediately dismissed the thought, because their time together had been so utterly limited, so many words both desired to speak, were lost and never said before Thranduil had returned to his own kingdom. And often, late at night, Bard had regretted for not having said them.

“I was born under King Oropher’s regency, in a time when the forest was still green and safe, a time when his son was not burdened with the heaviness which came with the crown. When I first saw him, he was already an adult, long grown up, but he was filled with such childish delight and playfulness that it was easily forgotten how old he truly was. Not a single day had passed in which the prince had not wandered the soft earth of the forest, feeling the different textures of moss and leaves beneath his bare feet. Often, and much to his father’s dismay, he was gone for many days, wandering amidst the starlit sky with the pale moon shining upon his hair, eliciting sparkles from it as if a thousand diamonds were woven through it; it was said that he looked like one of the gods my kin does not worship, but I never doubted that he must exactly look like them in all their splendor. For many years happiness and decent wealth had reigned .. and then darkness came and evil began to descent,”

Rather obvious it was just how much Feren indulged in reminiscence, savoring the blissful memories of a times without sorrow.

“And has never stopped to poison this very soil - and many a heart,” Bard concluded absently, not knowing who had placed the words in his mouth. The words Thranduil had said so many moons ago echoed now in his head; _'i wished the crown would have never come to me, I wished my father was still alive,'_ had been his words, and pity seemed to overwhelm Bard now. Nay, never had he known and he would give the world to met the carefree, playful prince of old, if only for a nights turn.

Feren simply nodded, before he spoke again quietly: “For many centuries I have known him, and as I have feared for him after his father’s death on the plains of D…., I fear for him now; he had succumbed to grief and melancholy, remaining but a shadow of his former self. Forgive me for speaking my true mind, and discretion would be much anticipated from my side: Now, with Legolas gone from his halls, you seem like the only one who can ease his grief, his burden – freeing him from the misery he had all too easily embraced.”

“Worry not, Feren,” began Bard, reassuring him that he would not reveal to Thranduil what he just had been told, “no word of this conversation shall ever leave my lips. As for the rest: I may try my best, but you as I know that I cannot promise you success.”

Silence fell again between them, the air only disturbed by the even trotting of the horses and the rustling of leaf-less branches above them. From time to time it was distant figures hushed in elegant movements from tree to tree in the direction they were heading, but then Bard felt as if he must be mistaken. Certainly an escort of almost twenty armed Woodland Elves must even be for Thranduil enough, and for his safety anyways – after all he was able to defend himself, hadn’t he proven it in the battle so many months ago?

They passed along abandoned settlements as they continued their ride, crossed bridges which led them over rivers in full spate, fed by the incredible amount of meltwater, after all the abundance of snow had been extraordinarily this winter. As they continued their ride it was as if the trees grew thinner around them, and soon the first settlement which was still occupied by elves of the same built and appearance as Feren was reached; whilst his own kin lived in solid houses, fed by the warmth of ever-burning fires in winter, these houses seemed to be nothing more than rudimentary shelters entirely made of wood. Intricately crafted, yes, but hardly sufficient to withstand a winter’s storm without severe losses. Some of the houses were nestled against broad trunks of trees, others even high above the earth in the branches, connected with each other by swinging ladders, and for long moments Bard stared upwards.

“Your attempt is all that matters; if you will not succeed, nobody will.”

Upon these words, Bard tilted his head to fully look at Feren, confusion visibly spread across his face; for the elf it was rather obvious where Bard’s train of thoughts led to and he saved him by answering the unspoken question. “Do not think I have never guessed what had happened between the two of you so many moons ago in the ruins of the destroyed city. Just because I have never said a word of business which is not my own, does not mean that I have never known, King of Dale. I do not condone it, none of it – how could I? All I ever hope for is that your interests are sincere.”

The moment Bard wished to reply, the sounds of countless bells and trumpets echoed through the forest, and as he returned his gaze towards the road his mouth dropped open upon the sheer beauty that lay before him; a bridge made entirely out of stone, almost shimmering golden in the light of the setting soon, which lead towards a gate so massive Bard had never seen before, abundantly ornamented with intertwined vines which send forth a hundred other, smaller tendrils. As he looked closer, beneath the tendrils a massive antler spread across both wings of the door – Thranduil’s sigil, and Bard inhaled sharply.

In sheer astonishment he reigned his horse to a sudden halt, unsure of how to proceed, or if the protocol dictated a special behavior from his side. Audibly, he frowned – for so many hours they had ridden and he had never even thought about asking what would await him once he set foot into the Elvenking’s halls.

“Welcome to King Thranduil’s Halls, Bard, rightful King of Dale,” a heavily armed guard Bard had never seen before announced, and simultaneously Feren dismounted, whispering into his direction: “So should you and worry not – all shall be fine in the end.”

Aye, of course he should – how ridiculous he was, he couldn’t help but think, but was immediately interrupted when the armed guard raised his voice again: “Your journey was uneventful and reasonable, without major occurrences?” he asked.

“Yes,” Bard managed to say, it had been almost **_too_** uneventful.

A dead and sick forest, truly – for most of the time no beasts or birds could be heard, not even in the safe distance, and often he had wondered how the forest which so endlessly stretched had been in a peaceful time many centuries ago.

“Good,” the guard who almost was a mirror image to Feren, said, “guest chambers within the palace have been prepared for your arrival where I will escort you for refreshment before you shall meet the king himself. Of your horse we shall take care of as long as you remain our king’s honored guest. Come,” he said, offering Bard a bow of courtesy before he spun on his heel, and no second later the great gate swung open with a long creaking noise.

With every step he took towards the entrance, Bard felt his heart to beat faster against his ribcage, anticipation and excitement mingling with a certain nervousness.

****

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I promise that this was the last of those 'inbetween chapters' :) - unbeta'd  
> As always - feedback would be totally lovely <3


	7. Reunion

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Bard discovers the amenities of his guest chambers before he finally meets Thranduil.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> unbeta'd  
> The OCs briefly appearing in this chapter are borrowed from another story of mine, which plays a couple of centuries earlier, but they should be around during this time, too, and I prefer them to have actual names than just titles even if their appearance is brief.  
>  ***Belecthir (Great Countenance)** = Thranduil’s chief advisor, of Sindarin origin, male  
>  ***Caleth (light, radiant)** = Thranduil's second chief advisor, of Silvan origin, female

**Chapter 07 – Reunion**

*****

**Thranduil’s Halls**

**-**

When the Great Gate behind him creaked shut, and shunned the bright light from the cavernous halls, Bard gasped audibly; the sight that greeted him indeed nearly took his breath away - spiraling stairs lead away in every possible direction and massive, stony bridge-ways towered high above him, making his mind spin as his eyes tried to follow their way. Thankfully, the nameless guard allowed him a few moments to admire his king’s beautiful palace, because never before had he seen such a stunning scenery, not even in his wildest dreams.

Truth to be told, Thranduil’s cavernous palace was nothing like Bard had expected it to be; where he had thought of coldness, crudeness even – similar as he had seen it in the ancient and twilight halls of Erebor, he was surprised by stunning craftsmanship and an unexpected warmth that surrounded him. Bard allowed his eyes to wander along the ornamented pillars, admiring the delicate craftsmanship, over the gushing waterfalls that ran down the stone walls, the numerous flickering torches that illuminated the halls.

All too easily he could lose himself in the beauty these halls were, and it was the elf’s gentle voice startled him out of his fascinations: “Shall we proceed?” he asked with indifference, and Bard only nodded in response.

Silently, the elf escorted Bard deeper into Thranduil’s palace, past chatting elves whose curious stare he felt every once in a while on him, and much in contrast to what he had previously assumed, these part of the palace was a buzzing and vibrating area, the scent of food and unknown incenses deriving from the massive candles mingling and tickling his nose. He hardly understood their alien tongue, only a few words their King had frequently used whilst he was in Dale, but it did not matter, the sound alone was intriguingly enough. Like distant lullabies, strangely soothing and enchanting.

When they reached the first hall from where more spiraling stairs led away in every possible direction and massive stone bridge-ways towered high above them, Bard halted and gasped in awe. He let his eyes wander along the breathtaking scenery which was illuminated by natural light that spilled into the cave. These halls are indeed befitting for the elves’ greatest king, he thought in silence, even if he had only seen a glimpse of the splendor they truly had to offer. Many secrets possibly lay hidden behind those delicately ornamented doors, behind those thick walls, lavish dining rooms and the royal family’s private quarters with all amenities Bard could think of.

The seemingly endless corridors were dimly lit, but every torch and candle elicited a warm orange light, high windows allowed the sunshine to fall into the caves. But what – apart from the wondrous crafted statues and pillars – amazed him most were the gushing waterfalls that cascaded down. Had he surely thought Thranduil would live in anything comparable to Erebor? He asked himself and - well actually Bard was not entirely certain anymore what he had even imagined.

Surprises seemed to linger behind every corner – massive candleholders in the shape of antlers, adorned with ivy leaves, golden torches and exquisite paintings, and indeed his amazement never ceased when they walked further into the twilight halls.

Nothing of what Feren had said to Tilda had been a lie, quite on the contrary: now, that Bard had seen the incredible beauty of Thranduil’s Halls with his own eyes, everything his daughter had said in excitement truly seemed like a blatant understatement, he mused as the guard led him away from the towering stairways towards a more secluded part of the palace, and Bard was certain that he would never be able to find his way out on his own; they turned left, and then left again, climbing another stairway which ended in another endless corridor where they came to a sudden halt.

Completely lost in thoughts Bard was when the elf raised his voice again: “King of Dale?” The guard turned around abruptly as he came to stand in front of a massive wooden-door, and when Bard nodded, being startled of his silent musings, he continued: “These are your rooms for the time you will be guest in these halls; we have taken great precaution to provide suitable amenities in regard to your rank and status. However, if you should find anything to be not to your liking or if you have a special request for something, do not hesitate to ask for it,” with that said the elf added the key into the keyhole and unlocked the door, “you are granted an hour’s turn for your own refreshment after the journey before you shall be escorted to meet our king. Novaer,” he said, taking a bow of courtesy before the rather startled men and disappeared along the endless corridor before Bard even had the chance to reply.

An audible sigh left his lips; to some extent those elves perhaps would always remain a mystery to Bard.

With care he turned the key and pulled down the massive handle, peaking inside to catch a glimpse of his room. Where he had his gaze expected to fall onto a soft bed and a little table, a dimly lit entry area with several adjusting doors sprang into his vision. He drew in a deep breath and stepped inside, not bothering to lock the door behind him, who on earth would come for him anyways?

Step by step he began to explore the rooms which actually were no rooms but chambers truly suited for royalty, his mansion in Dale a most humble house in comparison; several rooms – a private study, a living room with plush and cozy seats and a hearth in the middle, a sleeping chamber with a bed so incredible large in size, at least TWICE the size of his own bed which was not extraordinarily small, covered with the richest fabrics Bard had ever seen – awaited him.

And these were only the guest quarters!

Carefully, as if he was afraid to ruin the artwork of the countless pillows and blankets he sat down onto the bed, touching the emerald silks, and involuntarily he was reminded of the Elvenking’s smooth skin. Soon he would see him again, the first time for many months and childish excitement began to mingle with slight threads of worries.

Aye, the words the elf had spoken the last night before he had left the ruins of Dale, Bard had not forgotten:

_> >“Will you visit me?” Thranduil had said, and without much thought, “of course I will,” he had responded with sincerity, but for the words which followed he had not been prepared. _

_“Yes, you have said so before,” Thranduil had stated, “but will you visit me as my lover and not as new King of Dale who must pay his respect to his allies?”_

_Long moments he had relished in silence, overwhelmed by the elf’s undisguised hope ringing in the words he had spoken, and at last he had said: “When I visit your Realm after Dale is rebuild, I will pay respect to my allies, to my king – in every way he desires.” <<_

And he had meant it – and in fact, he still means it - but so many things could have happened in between!

Bard shook his head upon the ridiculous thoughts – once, twice, before he finally rose from the bed again. Actually he had lost track of time whilst admiring the stunning craftsmanship and indeed he wished for some refreshment dusty as he was from the road before he would meet with the proud Elvenking – but everything had went too quickly and he had not even thought about asking the guard who had escorted him here where the public baths were located.

His own fault this was, and inwardly he prayed for at least a bowl of fresh water somewhere in his rooms where he could cleanse his face. He hadn’t seen one in the rooms he had yet explored, but at least two other rooms belonged to his guest chambers; with quick steps he strode through the sleeping room towards the door opposite of the bed and opened it.

“What is this?” he exclaimed in sheer astonishment, not trusting his sight for once. Where he expected what he had already forgotten, a spacious bathroom greeted his sight, illuminated with countless candles that flicked upon the soft wave of air, a bathtub entirely made of stone sunken into the ground – already filled - awaited him, and for the first time he understood what the guard truly had meant with ‘amenities’.

This was exorbitant, beyond amazing, and for moments Bard simply stared in strange fascination before he carelessly stripped off his dusty travel clothes, throwing them onto the tiled floor; indeed he couldn’t await to let his body sink into the warm water, and an audible sigh spilled past his lips when his toes disrupted the even surface.

Little flasks filled with a colorless liquid stood nearby, and with curiosity he uncorked the first, and immediately the heavenly scent of lavender filled his nose and without much thought he poured a generous amount into the water. The next flask held the essences of violets, flowery and soft, almost too innocent for him, whereas the oil in the third flask smelled of precious wood, earthily and musky.

Oh all too easily he could lose all sense of time in the warmth surrounding him, dipping his head repeatedly under the scented water, which so heavenly embraced his aching muscles. Not long ago he had bathed in the icy waves of the Long Lake, and in fact he had never minded too much, after all he was a child of the lake, used to the rough climate and the cold waters, and he had never known anything else. But this – this was perfection! Beyond perfect, and at the end he indeed had to force himself to leave the splendor, and getting dressed again. For a high-necked tunic died in rich blues, carrying little ornaments at the end of the sleeves, and simple black trousers he decided; nothing too fancy, nothing too uncomfortable, but still somewhat more extravagant in comparison to the garments he had worn through the past months whilst Dale was being reconstructed.

Just in the moment when he was finished a sharp knock was placed against the wooden door, and a certain nervousness began to fill him.

As he opened the door, Feren’s greenish eyes met his own, and actually he was relieved to see the elf who had somewhat become a constant after the battle and not another name-less guard.

“Good afternoon, Bard,” Feren greeted him with a smile, “as you might already suspect, I shall escort you to my lord; we do not wish that you get lost, do we?” he asked without much sincerity as with every word that left his lips his smile only broadened.

Aye – he was right even if the words were meant as a tease, never would he be able to find anything in this labyrinth. “No, indeed we do not wish this,” Bard replied with a laugh, rubbing his beard in amusement, “and a good afternoon to you as well.”

Quickly Bard closed the door behind him and followed Feren along, to the right and then right again into another corridor which exactly looked like the previous one and he shook his head in wonder. Oh how easily was it to navigate in his own humble mansion in comparison!

“Worry not,” commented the elf in reassurance, “after a while you get used to these endlessly seeming corridors, because they are indeed different from each other.”

“Please tell me, Feren,” Bard began with a laugh, because he sincerely doubted that he would ever manage to differentiate between those hallways, and not entirely convinced he was, “would a mortal man be able to achieve such skills or would he be dead for many years already?”

When he was finished, both laughed heartily upon the man’s morbid humor and Bard realized that he had nearly never heard the pleasant and somewhat addictive laughter of an elf before!

 

* * *

 

**Thranduil’s private quarters**

Restlessly, Thranduil paced his rooms back and forth.

For many hours he was awake already as he was not graced with many hours of pleasant slumber that night; too many thoughts kept his mind occupied, too many emotions swirled through him - worries, anticipation, and such frantic excitement he had not felt in many a year.

But what if he was the only one who felt excited?

What if he was the only one who could not wait to lay his eyes upon his not-so-secret dalliance again?

**_What if?_ **

Easily, whispered words of affection could become lies, withering and waning like the flowers that had once covered the forest’s ground, memories that by now were long forgotten.

The first rays of the sun slowly chased the darkness away, and the stars made way for the new day, when he rose from his spacious bed, letting his eyes travel over the sickened forest, his forest. For many months it had been covered by a soft blanket of ice and snow, the poisonous corruption veiled and hidden from his eyes, although he had always known what lay beneath the innocent illusion.

So many things they have said, but still so many words were left unspoken, words which had him occupied for many a night when the cold storm howled outside and snowflakes softly fell down from heaven.

The first thing he had done after beginning the new day was to dismiss his servants for the rest of the day, as unable he felt himself to feel their bustling energy all around him when he felt so strangely, so completely not himself.

Nervous, weak even perhaps, and none of them should ever see him in such a state, for better or worse he could not tell.

Especially tedious the day was to endure, and sheer endlessly the hours stretched, and all Thranduil could ever do was to sit there and wait. He had taken a long bath already, combed his hair and got accordingly dressed, shimmering silk of the color of emeralds caressed his form, but no trumpet or horn could be ever heard.

Oh how desperately he wished Bard would have already arrived!

When the much anticipated sound finally filled the air, Thranduil nearly sprang to his feet with another wave of excitement soaring through him; for once he felt young again, and despite the knowledge that he was early – so beyond early, he couldn’t help to rush outside his chambers, along the endless corridors and winded hallways, his mind swirling, his heart racing, towards the rooms that gave the perfect view onto the bridge that led into his halls.

_A glimpse._

A tiny glimpse he felt to oblige to catch, and if protocol would not have prohibited his presence on Bard’s arrival – not that he cared too much about protocol, but with their delicate relationship of which he was not even certain if it could be called a relationship he had refrained, to save both the embarrassment.

With ease he lifted his body onto the window sill, the golden rays of the sun catching themselves in his hair, caressing his pale skin; for many weeks Thranduil had shunned light from his world, embraced the cold and darkness with such a morbid longing after his son had left him behind, that the brightness felt almost alien to his eyes, but soon his gaze was diverted from the sun towards the party who came to halt in front of the Great Gate. Easily Bard’s form could be distinguished amidst his own soldiers, his physique so differently in comparison to his own kin, the hair almost black like shimmering obsidian and certainly outstanding among the ebony tops of his Silvan elves, and with the warmth the sunshine elicited upon his skin another warmth, something long forgotten began to mingle; wave after wave it flooded his body, a feverish excitement, which felt so strange to the usually collected and rationally thinking Elvenking.

In silence and for many moments, Thranduil gazed downwards in such fascination that he seemed to forget the world around him, his obligations as king of these halls, as host of his royal guest; only when Bard disappeared through the gate and he heard the iron doors creak shut, he found himself able to leave the secluded rooms for the official part which was yet to come.

 

* * *

 

**Thranduil’s throne hall**

“We are nearly there,” Feren explained, walking side to side with him, and indeed Bard was grateful that it was this elf who accompanied him, because – at least to some extent – he eased his nervousness and admittedly he had become to like him over the months. “Aware am I of the fact that these words might be spoken in vain,” he continued in heavily accented common tongue, “but please do not feel intimidated by what awaits you behind this door,” and upon those words Bard stared at him blatantly. “Aye, I know it is easier said than done, and others – great elves, messengers, advisors and warriors among them – have felt strangely shy in these cavernous halls, and in the palace we have inhabited before. What you will experience is an ancient tradition, a protocol which Oropher has established in the time when Amon Lanc was still capital of our realm, the place which is now known as Dol Guldur – the place where darkness reigns …”

Rumors of the old elven fortress at the edge of the forest had reached Bard’s ears a few days after the Battle of the Five Armies, and as always it had been Gandalf who had told him some details in regard to the so-called Necromancer, which greater extent he had failed to understand at that time, but as the months passed he had begun to understood and easily made the connections. “Aye,” said Bard at last, and Feren continued in an instant, and if Bard was honest he had not expected to hear such words: “As much as my king – or maybe both of you would wish for a more casual reunion, he cannot allow it to happen, and you must understand, King of Dale. You have never set foot in these halls before, it is your first visit to our realm, you are the rightful leader of our closest ally; our people expect a formal reception – of both of you.”

Of course, Feren was right in everything he had said, and not knowing what to reply, he simply nodded but he couldn’t deny that his nervousness only increased by everything the elf had hinted, and secretly he wished that Thranduil would have told him in advance what to expect, but much to his own dismay he had not.

Three sharp knocks against the wooden door startled him out of his thoughts, knocks upon which the grand valves were opened by heavily guarded elves, and the sight alone that greeted him shortly afterwards was enough to make Bard gasp in awe. Indeed many things he had imagined what the Elvenking’s throne room would look like as constantly people chatted about everything the surviving dwarves told about the cavernous halls in which the elves’ greatest king resides, but the sight surpassed his most vivid imaginations clearly.

With a sharp intake of breath and little hesitation, he stepped forward onto the towering bridge that led towards the dais, and with every careful step he took, he scanned his surroundings with such fascination; Thranduil’s throne room was nothing short of intimidating, truly the heart of the kingdom, Bard thought in silence, and when his gaze fell onto the dais upon which magnificently the Elvenking sat he had to force himself not to stare with open mouth.

The arms of the actual throne were carved like massive antlers, capturing the king, who stoically sat upon the throne with crossed legs, in a fearful embrace. Soon, as he stepped closer, he felt the Elvenking’s piercing eyes upon him, a gaze burning so intensely on his skin that his heart began to race; and thankful he was indeed that he had come upon an official invitation in contrast to the company of Thorin Oakenshield, because easily terror would have already seized him would he be led upon the dais in rattling chains.

Soon, however, his attention was diverted by the Elvenking himself who rose from his throne with such utter grace, his movements fluid and almost catlike, with his waist length hair cascaded freely over his broad shoulders, glowing golden in the twilight of his halls against the deep emerald of his formal robes. Naturally, his fingers were adorned with several rings that perfectly matched the icy crown of winter because spring had not yet completely come.

Outstandingly beautiful he truly was, a glowing lantern in the dim halls as if he was not from this world.

Bard felt countless pairs of prying eyes on his back as soon as he came to a sudden halt on the platform before Thranduil’s throne, even quiet whispers in the distance could be heard every once in a while, disrupting the silence that persisted momentarily. Oh how he wished that somebody would have instructed him beforehand, as strangely lost he felt suddenly, how he wished that somebody would have explained him the official protocol, because he simply did not know what to do or say, what was expected of him, and the subtle threads of nervousness began to spread anew.

 _‘I will be honest with you, Bard of Dale. I wish Dale rebuilt rather sooner than later as many desires live in me,’_ Thranduil had said with such sincerity that his heart had fluttered, and exactly now the words rang in his ears, and the longer he looked upon the magnificent creature in silence, Bard wished the Elvenking had not changed his mind as longing and desire began to flare anew.

“Welcome to Mirkwood, Bard, rightful King of Dale!” Thranduil’s strong voice boomed through the hall, echoing from the stone walls into his direction again, and Bard was glad that the elf finally broke the awkward silence which seemed to hang so heavily between them. “Welcome to my halls and the halls of my people. Much do I hope your journey has been pleasant and uneventful?”

Nothing more than political words of courtesy these were, Bard noticed, because hadn’t the journey been uneventful Thranduil certainly would have known by now.

Was there a twitch of the corner of his lips, a brief sparkle in the otherwise emotionless face of the Elvenking? Bard couldn’t be entirely certain as Thranduil wore his mask of indifference with long mastered perfection. On several occasions during the stay of the elves in Dale, Bard had witnessed exactly such a behavior from the imperious Elvenking, but now, with all the knowledge he had obtained when they were alone, he knew it was nothing more than a frightening illusion; deeply the Elvenking cared for this lands and people, about other peoples’ well-being as his deeds for the inhabitants of Dale had proved long ago.

“I thank you for your kind invitation to your halls, the hospitality offered so far and the kind reception, king of the elves,” Bard began, standing straight and proud. So many things he wished to say, but he was not good at this, he simply wasn’t, that was at least what he thought – not raised for such political eloquence. Never had he been trained for such occasions, lacking the words required, although courage he certainly did not lack, “indeed my journey was uneventful and safe.” Additionally, it felt so extraordinarily odd to use such formalities with the one who had fucked him into oblivion during their fleeting encounters in the middle of the night a few months ago. Yet he knew it was necessary, at least as long as others were present.

“Very well,” said Thranduil, an honest smile playing upon his lips and a brief nod of courtesy, authority palpable with every word that spilled across them, but Bard already began to lose him in the deep blue eyes that were so strangely mesmerizing, “although I am reluctant to admit it, the forest is still dangerous, especially at its far edges. Despite the harsh winter I sincerely wish Dale’s reconstruction progresses as desired?” There was sincere interest from the Elvenking’s side.

Bard’s smile mimicked the elf’s before he spoke: “Long and harsh the winter had been indeed, but with the aid of your people we were able to maintain our labor, and therefore I – in the name of all my people – can only thank you. Your help came when it was least expected and most needed.”

Oh how he wished to ask for the elf’s own state of mind, how he had mustered to cope with his son’s leave – or loss - but hardly appropriate it would be to address such a delicate topic being surrounded by so many others.

Thranduil waved his hand dismissively as if the help was nothing special at all, even if both knew it was, and possibly his own people also knew. “A few of my people you have met during the past months already: Feren, my well-trusted captain and advisor among them, but naturally there are more: Belecthir, my chief advisor to my right,” he explained and automatically Bard’s gaze followed Thranduil’s eyes until they came to rest on a male elf who had the same blond hair like Thranduil and Legolas, “and Caleth, my second chief advisor, to my left,” a female, certainly of Silvan origin as the long brown hair that cascaded down her shoulders told him, “they have kept my kingdom alive during my absence.”

In order to achieve such a position of rank they must have lived many a year, Bard mused as they nodded towards him, yet they neither looked young nor old. Momentarily, Bard could feel the hungry eyes of Thranduil burning on his skin – or was it just another sinful illusion?

“Tomorrow after breakfast a council meeting shall be held as urgent matters in regard to Dale’s rebuilt need to be discussed,” he announced, and it nearly seemed to Bard as if Thranduil simply wished to get the political business done as quickly as possible, and he all too well could understand such desire, as it mimicked his own, “but for once we shall set the politics and required courtesies aside. Your travel might have been exhausting, I assume, and therefore I will not keep you occupied with stately matters for much longer, be assured,” Thranduil added, and for seconds it seemed as if indeed another smile tugged at his lips. With utter grace rose from his antlered throne, ever so slowly as if he would cherish the awestruck stares he undoubtedly received, his emerald robes sweeping behind him against the marble stairs. Such intricate grace, such splendor – he had to force himself not to stare openly and inappropriately so – once already he had caught himself staring in the most blatant way, and dearly he hoped that the Elvenking had not noticed.

 _‘Worry not,’_ a voice - Thranduil’s voice! - echoed in his head, _‘your stare shall be easily forgiven,’_

For seconds Bard’s mouth dropped open, because Thranduil’s lips did not even twitch, whilst he took a few steps towards where the man stood, but the words were there! Certainly and unmistakably, so.

What elvish madness was this again? Aye, the words were softly spoken, almost accompanied by a pleasant laugh, but he had not said anything! Not a word!

When Bard caught the elf’s gaze, undisguised mirth sparkled through them, and he knew he had lost, even if he was not certain what exactly that was; however, it mattered not, at least not for him.

With a gesture of his hand alone, the Elvenking dismissed the remaining guards and bystanders and not a moment later they disappeared soundlessly and unseen by Bard’s eyes. “Welcome to my realm once more,” said Thranduil as he came to stand right before him, and Bard felt as if his knees would grow weak by the elf’s mere presence alone. “I hope you are almost starved as I have taken the liberty and have ordered dinner to be prepared once the official reception is closed,” he added softly.

Until now, Bard had not noticed himself, but he was indeed hungry, terribly so, “Indeed I am,” he said, rubbing his beard and giving Thranduil a rather cheeky smile in response.

“Very well, then I shall not let you wait,” said the elf with a laugh, “no rumors of letting my guests starve to death shall reach the world. And what I wanted to say for a while: it is good to see you again, Bard.” The words were barely audibly, and suddenly all authority was gone from his voice, and the mask of indifference slipped from his face, revealing a flashing smile.

Involuntarily, Bard’s heart leapt in delight.

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Just a little note: as I have some other WIPs which require my attention and also participate in two tolkien fic/art secret santa exchanges, I have to set this fic to a little hiatus.


	8. Hunger

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> At last Bard and Thranduil are granted some privacy whilst dining together.

**Chapter 08 – Hunger**

*****

Thranduil’s halls were like a massive maze, Bard thought, contemplating how on earth he should ever navigate through all the corridors and winding staircases that led away into every possible direction, but he did not dare to voice his concerns aloud. In fact he felt rather ridiculous for thinking so, after all he came on the Elvenking’s request to his cavern kingdom, and certainly the elves, especially Feren, would take care of him whilst he was their guest; still he couldn’t force the thoughts to the back of his head, not having the slightest idea where his own quarters were located. Everything just looked exactly the same!

In silence he walked besides the elf until Thranduil came to a sudden halt, and absently Bard’s glance thought the Elvenking’s; they stood in yet another hallway – identically to the five which they have already traversed - where a flickering torch nearby sent deep shadows along the corridor, settling now on Thranduil’s fair face.

Bard had always felt as if an air of enchantment surrounded the proud elf, literally wafted around him wherever he went; here, in his own halls, the magical aura only seemed to intensify.

“Worry not,” Thranduil said with sincerity but not without a slight chuckle, “until now, I haven’t heard of an honored guest who got himself lost in these halls and died of starvation because nobody ever found him.”

Bard’s eyes widened; was Thranduil mocking him?

“Can you read my mind?” asked Bard in astonishment. He has heard the rumors of the elves being able to read the mind of other’s without the respective person being aware of it. Rumors, aye, still they persisted in his head; he had heard of rumors about elves stealing mortal children, too, ridiculous and defaming tales.

“No,” responded Thranduil with a shake of his head, sending his long hair flying, “I am not graced with this blessing – or curse – like others of my kin. I cannot read your mind nor do I have the gift of foresight. Right now I was only interpreting the language your body spoke, and your reaction told me that I was not mistaken.”

Bard did not quite believe him. “Really?”

“Oh Bard, what other ridiculous tales and lies have you heard in all the years? Maybe this might sooth your troubled mind: I am able to communicate with my son to some extent via our mental bond, something which is normal between family members,” Thranduil paused for a moment and it was as if his features darken, “given he does not block me out of his mind, but that is it for me. There are others who possess the gift – Lord Elrond for example, or Lady Galadriel. Perhaps you have heard of them before.”

Bard nodded, mainly because he didn’t know what else to say.

He wished to ask if Thranduil knew how Legolas fared since he had left the kingdom, but given the pained look on his face he doubts it and suspects that Legolas has indeed blocked his father out of his mind, something he found beyond cruel. Humans didn’t possess this ability but it would be the same as if his children wouldn’t speak with him anymore; which is a statement in itself.

At the end it is the elf’s voice that startled him out of his musings: “Do not let us linger in those corridors longer than it is necessary,” suggested Thranduil, “I assume you are still hungry and perhaps also wish for some privacy.”

“Both,” said Bard, and with his words the smile came immediately back onto the elf’s lips.

They passed the time until they reached the royal wing where Thranduil resides with idle small talk. The elf told him about the advisors he just has met, about the origin of the halls and a bit more about the Silvan Elves of these lands, whilst he told the elf about the reconstruction of Dale, the incredible progress they have made even through the harsh winter.

Perhaps Thranduil knew everything already; if he did, he didn’t say so but remained silent and listened eagerly to everything what Bard had to say.

At the end of the corridor stood two heavily armed guards, so Bard assumed their walk through the cavern labyrinth has finally come to an end; and so it was.

“We are nearly there,” announced Thranduil.

With an incline of his head the Elvenking greeted his soldiers, a motion which Bard absently mimicked. The elves returned the gesture and stepped to the side to let them part without question, closing the way immediately after they have slipped through.

“Precautions,” explained Thranduil matter-of-factly, “the days are still perilous.”

 

*****

The heavy wooden door, decorated with rich ornaments of twined leaves and flowers, creaked slowly open and instantly Bard was greeted by the heavy scent of sandal-wood and the smell of delicious food. If he was honest, he had not the slightest idea what the elves of the Woodland Realm usually ate – if they ate at all, because all he had ever witnessed was Thranduil drinking wine.

Right now, it did not matter, because judging from the smell he was certain he would greatly like it, and without hesitation he stepped inside.

Candles and torches illuminated the entrance chamber of the Elvenking’s royal quarters which was, undoubtedly nearly as large as the largest room of his own mansion in Dale.

Aye, since his childhood days he had been told about the splendor and great wealth that were supposed to be harbored within the cavern halls of the Woodland Realm; a glimpse of Thranduil’s wealth he had caught already whilst the elf had resided in Dale, but the provisional pavilion was nothing in comparison.

Whilst being occupied with sorting his thoughts he heard the key lock being turned around and his heart began to race; why on earth should Thranduil lock the door when two heavily armed guards stood by at the end of the corridor, which was the only entrance to the king’s private quarters?

Faintly the elf’s gentle voice reached his ear, “now come, will you?” asked Thranduil but Bard remained where he stood as if he was rooted to the ground.

“Is all well, Bard?” he inquired, this time a little bit louder and indeed the man was torn out of his reverie; the way how he pronounced, nearly purred his name knocked the breath out of him.

“My apologies,” muttered Bard under his breath; he felt indeed apologetic for his inappropriate behavior.

But what should he do? He was entirely taken aback by the sheer beauty of Thranduil’s chambers – of everything harbored within them. And this was only the entrance hall! Expensive furs laid across the wooden floor to keep the chill from the stone at bay, torches in the shape of deer heads hewn into the stone.

“If you desire so I will show you my quarters after we have dined, but for once we should not let more time pass by; otherwise the food will get cold which would be a pity indeed,” offered Thranduil whilst he urged Bard to follow him

Bard hadn’t any objections to this, yet he still his gaze wandered from door to door, curious what exactly lay beyond them as Thranduil escorted him towards his private dining room.

 _‘Such delicate craftsmanship, so richly decorated,’_ mused Bard in silence.

At last the elf halted and reached for the handle to open the door for Bard. “Here we are,” stated Thranduil, and carefully, almost hesitantly, Bard stepped inside. Somehow he felt awkward, as if he disturbed the elf’s privacy – which was of course a ridiculous thought in itself because, after all, Thranduil had invited him to come, to join him for dinner.

Still, the notion in his mind that this room wasn’t for him to see, persisted as his gaze wandered. In the meanwhile, the Elvenking stepped aside and removed the heavy crown from his head, placing it carefully aside. The regal authority remained.

Flickering candles and a fire at the far end of the room were the only source of light, painting the room in a red-golden veil. “Do not get intimidated, but feel as if you are at home,” said Thranduil when Bard remained rooted to the ground. With a graceful motion of his hand he gestured towards the dining table that was surrounded by ornamented wooden chairs.

The abundance of finest foods almost took Bard’s breath away.

Vegetables he had never seen before, pastries, several different sorts of bread, fresh fruit on shining plates of silver plates; for once his eyes and mind were diverted from the Elvenking’s fair form. His gaze travelled over a variety of wine bottles, jars filled with mysterious pates and jams perhaps, assorted sweets and honey. Bard has always been curious to taste different food and drinks, and in silence he thanked the gods that no fish was anywhere present; over the past years he had had his fair share of fish for the rest of his life, the smell alone made his stomach cringe.

Bard sat down in the chair Thranduil suggested, taking care not to knock over any of the bowls and platters. Rich and elaborate flower arrangements adorned the table and Bard wondered from where such divine bouquets came from. They could have hardly grown in these lands during winter. Carefully he allowed his fingers to brush against the smooth wood of the table before his fingers wandered toward the silver cup. Much to his surprise the goblet was already filled with wine, and without much thought he brought it to his lips; only when the elf spoke he noticed his incredibly manners.

“Thank you once again for accepting my invitation,” announced Thranduil, raising the silver goblet high into the air. “Let our alliance be strong and the trade which comes from it be prosperous, let peace reign these lands for many years that no aid in war is needed.”

Bard eyes widened at the sudden formality in Thranduil’s voice and he wondered when their meeting has become official again; indeed he had hoped this part was over. “Asides from that: to a lovely evening, and an even lovelier company,” the elf added.

Was he complimenting him? Charming him even?

Bard felt his cheeks burning as he brought his goblet towards the elf’s cup, struggling to find words that would match the Elvenking’s eloquence. “The pleasure is all mine.”

There was something in the elf’s demeanor, in the way he spoke with him, looked at him that let all blood flow down into his loins.

“Good,” replied the elf with a smirk that was not entirely innocent upon which Bard blushed even further. Actually it was odd, because he did not blush easily – usually, nor did he feel nervous in the company of others – usually. But then, Thranduil was everything but _‘usual’_ (a word which the Elvenking most likely would take as an open affront), dining with him in such a private setting even more unusual.

“But let us not tarry until you die of starvation; “ With such patience the Elvenking began to explain the various dishes to him, actually every single one of them and when Thranduil was finished, Bard felt as if he has already forgotten half of it.

However, it didn’t matter too much, because he was more than willing to simply try out the heavenly smelling food.

 _‘Rum cake with candied fruits, cinnamon rolls, buttered venison, asparagus with mustard dip,’_ it echoed in his mind as he filled his plate with an assortment of what supposedly were the appetizers. Actually he was hungrier than he had previously admitted, and with great delight he began to eat. Never before had he eaten anything so delicious, so heavenly tasting, unfamiliar flavors caressing his lips and tongue. Half of the dishes he did not even know what it was, but surprisingly every single one was to his liking.

He couldn’t help but compliment the Elvenking which seemed to intensely watch him.

“The food is delicious,” said Bard after taking a large sip from his goblet because the wine is delicious, too. When their eyes met across the distance he looked quickly away because too long his lingering glances had already roamed across the Elvenking’s fair face. To him, Thranduil had always been breathtakingly beautiful, even in battle with splatters of blood adorning his pale skin, but right now in the soft glow of the candles, he shone in an entirely different light; his features were softer than usual, without the heavy crown resting upon his head.

“Thank you,” responded Thranduil with a smile upon the open flattery, “just a little warning: the wine is rather strong and it would be a pity if you would fall asleep on the dining table, now would it not?”

Bard felt the blood rush into his head upon the suggestive words; they implied something he had been hoping for the entire winter, something he – they – have not dared to speak of until know.

“A pity indeed,” he stated, and for seconds it was as if Thranduil reached out as if to touch him, but then his hand went into the bowl that held fresh grapes.

In comparison to him the elf has barely eaten anything, something which he hadn’t noticed until now so occupied he was with filling his rumbling stomach. “Are you not hungry?” he asked, mainly to overplay his sudden insecurity. So many thoughts rushed through his head at once that he had problems to keep them at bay and not to say something stupid.

Thranduil shook his head in denial. “Nay, not overly,” he confirmed, “but please do not let yourself be bothered by it and eat as much as you like.”

And so he did, but not without shooting the Elvenking a glance every now and then.

“The new clothes suit you,” said Thranduil with such a casualty that across him Bard froze, his fork rooted to the spot between his mouth and the plate. Whilst he searched for any traces of mockery (which he didn’t find), his mind reeled of what to respond; he wasn’t used to such flattery.

There was a flicker of emotion on the elf’s face that Bard couldn’t comprehend, at least not in its entirety; nevertheless it put Bard at ease to some extent. As much as he hated to admit it, the elf still unnerved him, mainly because his facial expressions were just so impossibly hard to interpret. As was his voice. Ever since their secret encounters in the Elvenking’s tent in Dale he knew how emotional Thranduil is, how he looked like when the mask of ice scattered. Bard wondered if all elves possessed this rather specific trait which was so unfamiliar for the race of men.

“Well, I doubt that your clothes are new, nevertheless I can only return the compliment,” at last he replied with an honest smile, because the silken robes adorned with delicate embroidery were beautiful indeed.

“Nay, indeed they are not, but thank you for letting me know that they are to your liking.” A pair of stunning blue eyes were fixed on him, sparkling and twinkling like diamonds in the candle light.

“How did you fare?” asked Bard, too long has the questioned occupied his thoughts, he simply had to know and his patience for idle chatter has run thing. “Pardon me if this may sound rude, but I mean ..” he added, but he couldn’t finish his sentence as Thranduil interrupted him. “You mean how I coped with the loss of my son? Cope still?”

“Aye, how you fared in general,” Bard said, strangely shy which was so unlike him, “I’m sorry.”

“Do not be,” responded Thranduil in an understanding tone and a sigh of relief tumbled across Bard’s lips. “The question is legitimate as I have troubled you with my worries after Legolas has announced his leave; to be sincere with you: not all too well. Half of the days I drank myself to stupor, contemplating the misery my behavior has provoked, the persisting corruption of the forest, the fallen. Often I dared not to fall asleep; my dreams consisted of dark forests and darker trees, dead branches and corrupted soil beneath my feet. I dreamt of blood-stained earth and my father’s death and into those dreams images of Legolas twined…” Thranduil trailed off, and fell silent shortly after, sadness spread across his fair face. Bard felt as if he has to say something – anything, but no word that would come to him seemed befitting and therefore he remained quiet until the elf spoke again. “Pardon me; I got carried away.”

“There is no need to apologize,” intervened Bard, speaking his mind aloud, “I do not crave to hear a soothing lie from your lips, that’s not why I was asking, because if, I would not have asked at all. Throughout all the long nights I have wondered how you fared…”

“Have you?” interrupted Thranduil with a hint of surprise as if it would be the most ridiculous thing for Bard to think of.

Bard nodded his head before he scratched his stubble. “Of course I have .. what did you think?”

“I .. I do not know?” said Thranduil with an unexpected insecurity, almost frowning.

The expression on the Elvenking’s face was odd, Bard thought, as the mask finally began to scatter. “See, me neither. So please continue…” he urged him to speak his dreams and worries aloud because he was honestly interested in everything Thranduil had felt, perhaps still feels. Too many a night he had spent wondering about exactly this.

With a sigh the Elvenking sank back into the chair. “Legolas was my constant throughout all the years, the sole person on earth who kept me alive after my wife was no more; who saved me from drowning in self-proclaimed misery. He was still very young when she died, so utterly dependent on me that I didn’t have the chance to overly indulge into mourning her loss, into contemplating my life and my mere existence. I had to be strong, for him. Over the years he grew up and flourished, became an excellent warrior himself with responsibilities in my realm; despite his achievements all I ever saw was the helpless child. The child I wished was still dependent of my help. I have been blind, terribly so, and at the end my behavior has chased him away.” The entire time whilst he spoke he held the silver goblet between his slender fingers and Bard felt himself unable to tear his gaze apart from the elf’s jeweled hands.

Bard didn’t know where the words came from, but they were there undoubtedly. “One day he will return.”

Thranduil caught his gaze. “Do you think so?” Honest concern was audibly in his voice.

A fit of boldness arose within Bard. “Yes.” Well, he didn’t know for sure, but from what he knew of Legolas after their brief meetings before the battle, the prince was neither cruel nor heartless – hurt, yes, searching for adventures, searching for his true self. Nevertheless, despite everything that came to pass between father and son in the past, he must know how much his father suffers from his decisions and once the waves calm down he will return. “Yes, and if you listen to the voice deep inside your mind you will know the answer, too.”

A new smile began to form on the elf’s lips, lighting his face up. “Then, for once, I shall believe you. But tell me, is all well in Dale after the grave sickness that had assailed your people?”

“Aye,” confirmed Bard, “and thank you again for the help you have sent; forever we shall be indebted. We still do not know why the disease has spread to such an extent and why so many of us were befallen. Thankfully we hadn’t had any new infections over the past weeks and all have recovered completely. Apart from that, the snow has hindered much of the trade and slowed down the reconstruction but I assume when midsummer comes to pass the city will be complete once more.”

“Good,” stated Thranduil, sipping a generous amount of wine, “and your children? I hope all is well with them?”

“Oh yes, yes, they are fine, at least since Tilda’s recovery; they are currently at with my sister-in-law, getting spoiled rotten there,” Bard explained with a laugh, because his sister-in-law cherished them like their own, and for certain they were allowed certain liberties which Bard would strictly prohibit if he would know.

“That is good to hear. You could have brought them with you here. The invitation included all of your family.” Thranduil’s voice was gentle and soft, almost as if he regretted not having them explicitly included in the letter he had sent.

Silence fell, and it took a few moments until the elf’s words had settled. “This, I did not know,” said Bard rather carefully, although it wasn’t a lie, “and besides, I .. well .. given your own loss I also thought it might be inappropriate to bring them.” This wasn’t the only reason why he had decided to leave them in Dale, but he remained quiet on the rest. Although they both seemed content in each other’s company, the entire situation was far from being sorted out and it was as if both carefully avoided to touch the delicate subject, afraid that what they had hoped for would scatter into a million pieces.

Thranduil shook his head. “Nay, nay quite the contrary. Indeed my halls could do with the buzzing energy of children to chase away the depressing gloominess; children are a rare gift among my kin, and therefore they are cherished and adored. Usually a child follows shortly after marriage, and these days, more often than not, it remains an only child with a few exceptions. Elrond for example has three children, but then, he his half-elven.” Bard listened to Thranduil’s monologue with strange fascination. He wasn’t aware of any of these things, not even that Lord Elrond was not entirely elvish. “Despite our immortality, our fertility apparently is not lasting forever.” A hearty laugh followed the words, something for which Bard was entirely grateful for as he did not know how to respond otherwise, especially without tearing open the wounds the death of the Elvenking’s wife has left behind, anew.

His glass was refilled once again, and in silence Bard told himself not to keep himself occupied too much with the wine as he suspected it is the same potent wine which has sent Thranduil’s guards into deepest slumber whilst they were assigned to watch over the imprisoned dwarves. Well, and he had his own experiences with the wine also; a few moons ago in the ruins of Dale and all too quickly the alcohol seeped under his skin and spread inward is body.

Quickly they found other topics they shared a mutual interest in: archery, history, nature. It was something for which they hadn’t had time the days before and after the battle when other thoughts occupied their minds and for Bard it was a most welcoming diversion; actually he hadn’t even suspected that their interests could be so alike.

Every now and then, Bard took a few bites of the delicious food as did Thranduil but talking seemed to be so much more interesting than eating, especially as the food would remain there for a while. Apparently Thranduil had ordered his servants not to interrupt their dinner.

It is odd, Bard thought, the day had been extraordinarily eventful, he had risen with the first rays of the sun, but not the slightest trace of exhaustion or fatigue plagued him.

Rather mesmerized Bard watched Thranduil eating fruits he has never seen before; deep-red, almost the same color as the elf’s lips, rosy and full, and with delight he remembered the elf’s lips against his own. He began to fantasize, briefly but all the more vividly; it felt as if Thranduil was indeed touching him, at least until a voice tore him out of his thoughts.

“You are staring,” admonished Thranduil with a hearty chuckle.

Bard was so startled that he nearly dropped the goblet he hadn’t realized he was still holding. “I .. I..” he began, cheeks tainted scarlet.

The smile Thranduil shot him then was radiant, eyes lingering. “I am listening.”

Bard cleared his throat. “Err…” It didn’t happen often that Bard was lost for words, but now he certainly was; he can hardly say the truth, now could he?

_‘Oh pardon me, but whenever I close my eyes, your fair face appears in a faint afterglow? Taste you, feel you?’_

Thranduil’s blue eyes sparkled in the soft light of the candles and curiously the elf regarded him across the rim of his goblet. Both did not help him to focus on what to say. “I was merely thinking,” he choked out at last.

Apparently Thranduil took great delight in torturing him. “And about what, pray tell?” asked the elf with a coy smile.

When their eyes met and Thranduil’s eyes twinkle, Bard’s breath caught in his lungs; he has seen that look before, and realization hit him. He was flirting with him, shamelessly so.

 _His lips quirked into a smile._ “Take a guess,” challenged Bard, suddenly becoming bolder in the Elvenking’s company. What harm would come from it, he thought.

“Certainly not about the Master,” said Thranduil with yet another chuckle and in response Bard snorts. No, certainly NOT about the Master, otherwise his trousers wouldn’t be as tight now as they are. “Perhaps about Dale’s remonstration, but I guess rather not. Alfrid, then?” guessed the elf without too much sincerity.

Thranduil’s gaze wandered from Bard towards the red fluid swirling in the goblet he still held, before he brought it back to his lips.

Thranduil was brilliant as he was frightening; right now he was none of these things, but incredibly charming. “You are ridiculous,” laughed Bard with a shake of his head.

“Not Alfrid, then?” inquired Thranduil in mock surprise, brow creased, “I thought you were so endeared by his attempts to help defending the city,” a blatant lie upon which Bard couldn’t help laugh in dismay. No, Alfrid has been all but helpful.

“Oh well.. this is hard, truly .. but might you have thought about an elf then?” With mastered casualty but without any traits of arrogance the words spilled past the Elvenking’s lips.

Bard felt hot and cold at the same time, Thranduil’s words vibrating against his skin, echoing in his reeling mind, and with the words just spoken old confessions uttered in the darkness of the night a few months ago mingled.

 _‘_ _You are what I want .. what I need .. and just so much more,’_ the elf had said in the throes of passion, _‘The next time you scream my name I want to see your face.’_

“And would the mighty king of the Elves approve if I have?” Bard was astonished how easily the words came to him.

“I rather assume he would.” There was a radiance in Thranduil’s smile for which no words were made, for the looks the Elvenking gave him under his long lashes. “But why not ask him?”

“Now would you?” inquired Bard with a smug smirk.

**_“Yes.”_ **

The hunger and raw truth in the Elvenking’s eyes burnt his skin like dragon fire.

 


	9. Such idle threats

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> FINALLY! (do i really have to say more?)  
> featuring banter and snark.

**Such idle threats**

*****

_‘Yes.’_ In his mind, Bard still heard the word echoing as if Thranduil himself had spoken it again and again although he certainly had not. Instead, the elf kept watching him until blood tainted his cheeks crimson, something he took apparently great delight in. Such promises the tiny notion held that Bard could not help to revel in it.

Wordlessly Thranduil rose from his seat and Bard’s gaze kept glued to his form; there was a fluency and elegance in the Elvenking’s movements that nearly took his breath away as Thranduil went around the table towards where Bard still sat, watching him, staring at him. The way he walked resembled the predatory, yet elegant hunting sequences of cats; and not so dissimilar it was: hunter and prey.

“Still curious to see my chambers?” asked Thranduil, amusement flitting across his face.

“What?” snapped Bard, torn out of his stare, “No .. Yes, damn it.” Thranduil had a natural talent to unnerve him. Before he could dare a second look in the Elvenking’s handsome face Thranduil came to stand behind him, placing his hands upon his shoulders.

“Pardon me?” whispered Thranduil, breath delightfully too close against Bard’s skin all of a sudden. It felt as if the tips of the elf’s long hair brushed against his skin that was not concealed by his tunic, but maybe his imagination just played a trick on him - again.

Who knew what other infamous magical traits those damn elves possessed, as _bewitchment_ was certainly among them.

“I mean, yes of course I am,” said Bard at last, and slowly his coherency seemed to return.

In fact he was more interest in other things right now than being offered a guided tour through Thranduil’s quarters; given the splendor of the caves this could possibly take forever and he had never been one too patience. _‘Chambers … chambers .. who cares?’_ Rash, tumbling into trouble all too easily as the Master had often said, acting instead of spending ages considering – and exactly this trait of Bard’s personality showed itself right now. “However, and pardon me for doing so, I am admittedly more curious about something else.”

Thranduil tilted his head a little to the side, as it was so typically for Mirkwood’s king.

“I wonder what that might be,” mused Thranduil, his words, menacingly and seductively spoken, elicited yet another tremor in the man. Bard felt hot and cold alike, shivering and trembling in his seat when the elf’s long fingers sneaked beneath his tunic down his chest. Ever so innocently Thranduil asked: “mind to elaborate?” when Bard knew that the elf’s mind was anything but innocent right now. Confidently he had stepped into his personal space without even asking if he would mind (of course he wouldn’t), lips so close that they were almost touching his skin, his ear.

_Bastard._

Bard pursed his lips, focusing on the words that began to gather themselves on his tongue, considering whilst he forced his mind not to drift off, something that was not too easy with the elf’s fingers trailing along his skin. “As if you could not guess already?” he asked, letting his head fall backwards to be able to look at the Elvenking.

A soft and pleasant laugh spilled from Thranduil’s mouth, eyes glittering in the low light of the candles; the amount of mischief in them rendered Bard speechless for moments. He had no idea to what exactly the elf was up to.

“Oh you overestimate my skills. I am terrible at guessing,” stated Thranduil.

Bard did not believe him a single word, all the more when the elf took swift steps to stand right next to him and wordlessly dropped himself into his lap, the motion sending his limbs and hair flying. Thranduil was heavy, much heavier than his fluid movements gave him credit for, but complaining about this was the last thing that was on Bard’s mind right now. Instead, and rather automatically he placed his arm around the elf’s waist, marveling at the beauty of this ethereal creature.

He did not know what game Thranduil was playing at, still he played along.

“You are not?” challenged Bard, a haughty smirk playing at his lips, “than do what you are better at.”

The Elvenking did not need to be told twice.

Thranduil’s mouth pressed against Bard’s lips in a way he had not expected it, not after so many months of separation, not after the tactics he had used on him. Hungry, nearly starved – hungry for the touch, hungry for him, urgent and demanding. His long fingers trailed through his hair, and quickly Bard found himself gasping and writhing in the chair upon the assault. More than willingly, Bard yielded to Thranduil’s questing tongue that began to explore his mouth in a not too gentle manner.

Their kiss was neither chaste nor hesitant, but firm and filled with mutual longing and desire which had been bottled up for months too long. Thranduil’s lips were soft like the petals of the roses that decorated the dining table, his tongue hot and insistent.

Demanding.

Challenging.

It felt as if Bard’s entire body was set ablaze, consumed and eaten by searing flames; his hands wandered from Thranduil’s waist towards his neck, pulling his face closer, and closer still against him until all air seemed to have left his lungs.

A twitch of the elf’s body was the silent reward for his own eager tongue and hands, and inwardly Bard smiled being able to pull a reaction from the stoic king (who was – or rather could be – entirely different if he wished to, and now he certainly was different).

The assault was relentless (not that Bard would ever complain, though, because wonderfully the elf’s lips felt against his own), making him dizzy, making his head swim. Throughout so many nights when the snow had settled down on his window sill he had dreamed of being kissed by the otherworldly king of Mirkwood again, his lips soft as the falling snow, although they certainly were hotter and almost searing in its touch; often he had imagined how it would be to lose himself in his arms again – despite everything Thranduil had promised, he had doubted that it would ever happen again. _‘Nothing more than a sweet memory,’_ he had told himself many times, because too surreal it had seemed, beyond imagination. Yet there he was, kissing and holding the proud king as if it was the most natural thing to do for him, realizing that his imagination had lacked so many little details.

When Thranduil’s hands cupped his face, his eyes fluttered close and the world began to swim behind his lids, because so intense and affectionate the touch was. There was a sweetness in the caress that Bard somehow had never dared to dream of; this wasn’t about possession, about levels of adrenaline magnitudes too high for coherency as it had been the night before the battle – this was about something, which Bard had thought long dead within him.

_Love._

_Affection._

That at least were the emotion he felt. Strong and undeniably, overwhelming in their intensity – but did Thranduil feel the same? Did he not only chase dreams that weren’t there, things he wished to become reality?

_‘Shut up.’_ Thranduil’s voice said, and in response Bard’s eyes snapped open.

How? The elf’s lips were still sealed by his own, yet unmistakably the words had been there. Certainly he could have let the matter slip, but Bard would not be himself if he would not question this oddity. With reluctance he forced his lips away from Thranduil’s, looking him right into the eye.

“What?” muttered Bard, puzzlement visibly spread across his face.

“Your mental conversations,” explained Thranduil with nonchalance, staring intensely back at him, still smiling, “they are distracting and also tend to kill the mood, wouldn’t you agree?”

Bard sighed and said: “Probably you are right,” feeling both apologetic and foolish for his own thoughts he could not keep at bay, although there was no reason to be because without any annoyance the Elvenking had spoken

“I am often,” laughed Thranduil.

_Arrogant bastard._

With ease the elf shifted his position in Bard’s lap, coming to sit astride of him now. As he did, he shot him a dazzling smile before he spoke, laughter still audibly in his voice: “Now now, watch your tongue. Or better said: do something more useful than muttering insults with it.” With every word that fell from those luscious lips his fingertips wandered an inch along the sides of his throat, across his shoulders, mapping his collarbone with them.

Gods, the elf was truly unnerving.

This was a divine invitation, a challenge; one that Bard would wholeheartedly accept.

With a smirk Bard leaned in until his lips brushed against the silken skin of the elf’s throat. He began to lick along the vein that pulsated at the side, lingering there only for a blink of an eye.

“Like that?” teased Bard.

“Not too bad for a first attempt,” said Thranduil, pretending to be entirely unaffected by what Bard had done a moment ago when both of them were well aware of the fact that this was a blatant lie; the bodily response of the elf had proven differently.

“Oh you think I can improve?” Now it was Bard’s turn to laugh, and with amazement he noticed that Thranduil remained silent for a while. Instead of letting his tongue trail along his throat once more he shifted his head slightly until his mouth hovered against the hollow of Thranduil’s throat. He leaned in, kissing him there, licking and sucking until a sharp gasp fell from the elf’s lips, nearly drowning the words which finally came.

“We all can.”

_‘Even you? I am astonished.’_ He did not dare to speak the teasing words aloud, afraid of finally overstepping an invisible boundary. His loose tongue had often caused him problems in the past.

Of course, Thranduil was entirely different than the master had been, still Bard did not desire to face the Elvenking’s wrath, sparked by foolish thoughts. This time, the elf had apparently not read his mind, and soon Bard’s attention was drawn back towards Thranduil’s skin again. He took great delight in the caress, especially as slowly the stoic elf completely lost his composure; shifting and writhing against him, letting his head fall back as a secret invitation. Certainly the ivory skin was already glowing red from the suction of his mouth and his stubble, but Thranduil did not seem to mind – at all. Quite the contrary.

Without stopping to nibble at the sensitive skin, Bard shifted his hands towards Thranduil’s chest as he desired to touch, to kiss every single inch of him but the restricting garment made exactly that impossible; countless intricate knots and buttons hold the robes together, and he wondered if the elf had decided for this garment just to torture him. Most likely.

_‘These godforsaken robes,’_ cursed Bard in silence, forgetting once more that his mind apparently could rather easily be read whilst he fought with the elaborate fastenings.

They were a nightmare! And that was an understatement.

“Do you know what my kin says about bedding a dragon slayer?” whispered Thranduil, his voice hoarse and uneven. Gods, how Bard loved it when the elf spoke to him like that; in that low and breathy voice that just hinted his affection, the desire that was not concealed anymore but burned brightly in his blue eyes. Before he had the chance to reply Thranduil continued: “A powerful aphrodisiac, much stronger than all else known by my people.”

“What?” blurted Bard out, startled.

Wholeheartedly Thranduil laughed upon the vocal outburst, and Bard was not entirely certain if his question or the look on his face was to be blamed for the elf’s amusement. “Nothing. I merely wished to know if you were still responsive.”

“Bastard.”

“Shut up.”

Perhaps he might have, but Thranduil did not leave him the slightest chance to do so, kissing him with such frantic passion that he was rendered speechless. Desire sparked behind Bard’s closed eyelids and willingly he relinquished control towards the elf once more as questing Thranduil’s hands sneaked under his tunic. Apparently this was not enough, Bard noticed, when briefly the Elvenking withdrew his lips with a curse upon them. For moments he even thought that Thranduil would simply tear it apart (he had rather anticipated that).

There was no haste nor hesitation in everything Thranduil did, and with ease Bard’s tunic flew across the room but his other garments proved to be more challenging and Thranduil muttered something under his breath he couldn’t understand as the language wasn’t his own. What did words matter anyway when the most beautiful creature he had laid his eyes upon kissed and caressed him so divinely? When every word of the unknown language sent a shiver down his spine? The elf could insult him in the susurrating tone – still he would have smiled fondly at him.

Bard stared in awe down when Thranduil began to caress his nipples with his fingers and tongue, hands tangled in the Elvenking’s silvery hair that glowed in the soft light of the candles as did his skin.

It was not until then, that Bard let his head finally fall back in bliss, aching his body against the chair as he seemed to dissolve in the pleasure those lips brought. Much to his dismay they did not linger anywhere longer than mere seconds, shifting their attention from one spot to another, wandering, exploring, teasing. Down and further down the elf’s head sank, and the most filthy images began to occupy Bard’s mind already, but deliberately Thranduil ignored the spot where Bard desired to be touched most.

Gods, he felt as if he would come this cruelty alone.

“Make haste,” muttered Bard, before he even knew that he wished to say anything at all, “or–“

“Or?” Laughed Thranduil. Warm and purposeful, hinting and beneath long lashes he looked up until their gaze met, “such idle threats, King of Dale. Perhaps you now feel inclined to accept my offer of a guided tour throughout my quarters as sadly my bedchamber lies at the other end of these rooms, offering a by far more pleasant and comfortable setting - or do you think the floor serves well?”

“Indeed **_I_** do.”

*


	10. Breathtaking

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> warning for explicit sexual content, breath play & asphyxiation

**Breathtaking**

*****

For moments they stared at each other in a silence that permeated everything.

“If it will be sufficient for the Elves’ greatest king?” teased Bard, almost mocking the elf who still sat comfortably in his lap. Thranduil, however, did not seem to mind at the slightest.

“Worry not, Bard,” said Thranduil, snatching a kiss from Bard’s lips. “After all it is not my back who will suffer.”

_‘Arrogant bastard.’_

Thranduil’s eyes seemed to burn his skin as he watched him. Questing, and challenging. In the undisguised hunger that shone from them Bard lost himself. With ease Thranduil shifted his position and sank from Bard’s lap down onto the floor, ever so gracefully. With a broad smirk he stretched his long body against the floor, keenly looking up to where Bard still sat, unmoving.

“Inclined to join me?” asked Thranduil, not entirely innocent. “Or are you content to watch?”

_‘Watch what?’_

Thranduil’s long fingers were working the countless buttons and laces of his robes, until finally the last came undone; the elf was gloriously to look at, muscles flexing beneath his golden skin. For once Bard took his time – of course he was inclined to join Thranduil on the floor – yet mesmerized he stared at him for a while: the flushed cheeks, the sparkling eyes, the perfectly shaped abdomen.

“Not afraid to soil your precious floor with wax?” inquired Bard with a laugh as he sank down onto the floor, right between Thranduil’s parted legs.

Thranduil countered, “Let the condition of my floor be my concern, Bard, but no: the winter has long perished and candles are made for cold winter nights and not for nights when spring stands at our all’s doorstep.”

Bard’s heart bet already thick in his throat; heavy against his rib-cage; growing louder with every word that spilled from the Elvenking’s luscious lips.

Softly his hands skimmed Thranduil’s sides, caressing him, almost entirely lost in his thoughts. He leaned in and began to kiss a line across the elf’s stomach, teasingly so, and it nearly appeared as if the elf was ticklish. “So there are other plays for spring and summer, then?” he whispered, gaze searching for Thranduil’s own.

“Of course there are. Fruits and flowers, essences and oils that leave the most wonderful feelings on another’s skin,” said Thranduil, not caring to elaborate further, but adding: “certainly you have noticed the roses on the table, and perhaps the thorns which adorn the peduncle.”

Sure, Bard knew. But he had never even thought about them in such a way. However, now he did, and Thranduil used exactly this for his advantage; before Bard knew what happened, their position was reversed with Thranduil now hovering above him. The elf’s lips were against his skin the moment he wished to mutter something under his breath, kissing a line from his jaw down the expanse of his neck, further down to the dip of his collarbone. The words which had gathered on his tongue were gone. Bard’s eyes fell shut, but he forced them open again; he simply had to look at this divine being.

From one of the chairs, Thranduil took a pillow and shifted it beneath his knees, Bard noticed; so it was indeed only his back that was supposed to suffer.

Thranduil grew silent for a moment. “Anyway,” he declared, diverting, “darkness has just begun to veil the sky, and many hours of night are yet to come. For once I shall let my original ideas slip – even I am not prone to impatience.” There was a dangerous undercurrent to his tone, one Bard failed to notice in his mesmerized stare. Previously, Thranduil had complained about the reluctance of Bard’s trousers, and as it was they still separated his hands from what he truly desired. Indulgently, the elf smile down at him, and Bard already anticipated Thranduil’s hands working the laces and buttons of his trousers. Perhaps, if he was lucky, the actions would reward him with a brush or two against his cock. Yes, indeed he would have highly anticipated exactly such. However, the elf had entirely different ideas. Before Bard knew what was happening, Thranduil simply tore the fabric in two, cold air sweeping across Bard’s heated skin.

“My best trousers!” Bard complained, eyes wide. In fact they were the only good ones he had brought on his journey and if he recalled correctly he was supposed to join a meeting of Thranduil’s advisors the next day.

The Elvenking’s possessive gaze swept over his nakedness, and suddenly Bard became aware of every inch of his exposed skin that was devoured by Thranduil’s hungry stare. He looked at him as if Bard was the most valuable prize in an action.

“Worry not, my tailors are counted among the best; surely they will be able to repair them without much delay.” To Thranduil who apparently had an entire chamber for robes and other garments, there wasn’t exactly a problem.

Bard muttered something under his breath, hoping that Thranduil would not understand what it was, because it were not the most endearing words he had ever said. Either the elf did indeed not hear him (what Bard doubted to some extent), or he simply ignored him, and let the matter slip for once. Most likely the latter, Bard assumed, as Thranduil was already occupied to peel the trousers off his legs.

Thranduil’s hand ran along Bard’s chest, fingertips idly playing with the curly hair in which the elf always took such great delight; he couldn’t understand Thranduil’s fascination with it, not quite, but then, after all body hair was the most common thing that existed, and admittedly he took the same delight in Thranduil’s hairless skin.

Additionally, it was not entirely unpleasant what the elf did, quite the contrary if he was honest.

Deliberately, and much to Bard’s frustration, Thranduil ignored his erection, both with his hands and lips whilst he kissed every inch around it.

A silent curse spilled from Bard’s lips.

“Is something the matter?” asked Thranduil, sweetly so, letting his eyelids flutter coyly.

The elf was anything but coy, Bard knew it all too well, still he was beautiful pretending he was.

“Touch me,” muttered Bard under his breath.

Again, both of the elf’s hands found their way onto Bard’s chest, stroking him gently, but then he stopped, tilting his head a bit to the side. “Like this?” Thranduil inquired, eyes curiously resting on Bard’s face.

 _‘Fuck it, NO!’_ The elf unnerved him to a greater extent than he ever had.

“Damn you! No!” snarled Bard, much harsher than he had intended to. Feverish excitement rushed through him.

An apologetic smile played on Thranduil’s lips. “No? But you said I should touch you – and so I did?”

It was then when Bard finally lost his temper with the godforsaken elf who still smirked at him, feigning ignorance. “Damn you, Thranduil! You should touch my cock.”

“O,” the Elvenking said, covering his mouth with one of his hands whilst the other sneaked between Bard’s legs and gave his erection a few firm strokes. “You have to tell me what you desire, you know.”

“Shut up, now will you?” said Bard, yanking the elf’s entire body downwards with his hand still trapped between them. He captured Thranduil’s lips with his own, pushing his tongue inside the elf’s mouth until all idle words were hopefully washed away from his lips.

Thranduil was a sight to behold, he always was, especially in privacy with the sultry look on his face. “So demanding. I quite like it.” Bard watched Thranduil’s expression shift; it changed from something fair and elegant into fierce monstrosity, threatening in its otherworldly beauty.

His response was drowned out by a cry of anguish as without warning Thranduil began to push a finger inside him. A pleading whimper escaped his lips before he could stifle it; he knew it was ridiculous at best but he did not wish to show such weakness in front of the Elvenking.

“Breathe,” Thranduil whispered against his lips, kissing him languidly as he continued to push the digit inside. The second finger was already edging on the verve of discomfort. Bard tried to wrap his arms around Thranduil’s waist, yet still agony washed over him as pain blossomed.

He knew all he had to do was to endure, because soon pain would be subsided by something far more pleasurable, something he had longingly looked forward to for many months. With a sigh, Bard forced himself to relax, at least a little, something which became easier with the elf’s noises of appreciation. Thranduil’s low moans went straight to his groin, soon banishing any thoughts from his mind.

When the whimpers were subsided by a gasp that fell from Bard’s lips, Thranduil’s fingers moved a little faster, stretching, scissoring him open for what was yet to come.

Soon, the elf wasn’t the only one who had become impatient. “Enough of this,” stated Bard, despite better knowledge. He was hardly sufficiently prepared with only two fingers inside him, yet he had enough of it already. He needed to feel Thranduil with every inch of his body, feel the elf’s skin against his own, feel him inside, no matter if pain was ensued. “Mind you, but hurry up.”

Thranduil merely laughed – softly and spell-binding with his blue eyes sparkling in the low light of the candles.

“As you wish,” he said, the smirk audibly in his voice. “However, do not blame me for your own impatience.” There was genuine affection ringing in the words.

Bard’s heart skipped in reverence. “I shall not.” A lie perhaps, but he did not care.

The smile the Elvenking gave him was breathtaking and excitement flared through him, all the more when Thranduil finally peeled himself out of his breeches. O, he was glorious in his nudity, and Bard lost himself in rapture.

The edge of Thranduil’s lips curled into a knowing smile and his fingers hit the hidden nub again before he finally withdrew them.

“Good,” said Thranduil, pushing Bard’s legs further apart. He rose to kneel between them, positioning Bard’s legs around his waist before he poured a generous amount of oil into his palm.

With keen eyes Bard watched him, almost sure that he was in heaven even already; the sight Thranduil offered was divine, those flexing muscles underneath the skin which glowed golden in the faint light of the candles. Thranduil gave his cock a few strokes, now glistening with oil and momentarily Bard doubted his sanity.

What on earth had he thought to urge the elf on to continue?

 

*

Bard gasped at the shock of the initial penetration. There was no denial that Thranduil’s cock was large, and he was not sufficiently prepared for any of it. Additionally he had not touched himself in such a manner in the past few months, something which perhaps only made it worse. It hurt, and Bard squeezed his eyes shut.

Soon, however, sparks sizzled in his body, and a groan left his lips when Thranduil pushed further inside him; his thighs and legs trembled around the elf’s waist.

So many nights he had dreamt of this! To be filled by Mirkwood’s proud king once more, to be fucked into oblivion by him until he couldn’t walk for days again.

_‘Relax. Relax. Relax.’_

When Thranduil was buried inside him to the hilt, he gave Bard a few moments to adjust to his erection, both breathing heavily already. Bard tried his best to shoo the discomfort he still felt to the back of his mind, and partly he even did succeed. His breath was uneven, his lips parted in anticipation, his cheeks all flushed in his aroused state, and with a genuine smile playing on his lips Thranduil watched him.

“Kiss me,” Bard pleaded softly, entangling his hands into Thranduil’s hair; and so the elf did. He leaned in, and captured Bard’s lips with a searing intensity until all pain was completely erased from Bard’s mind.

Thranduil wasn’t gentle. At least not in the usual sense, and oddly for that Bard was grateful; he needed to feel him with every fiber of his body, brief pain ensued – he had to know that he was real, that what they shared was real. Too many nights it had appeared that he had chased a dream he dreamt alone.

Oh how he was mistaken as Thranduil’s honeyed words affirmed. “This is what I have dreamt of all those long nights,” he admitted, voice low and rough with desire.

“My dreams have not been so different to your own,” stated Bard, snatching a kiss from Thranduil’s lips; a kiss that was more teeth and questing tongues than anything else. Both did not mind at the slightest.

Above him, Thranduil whimpered and moaned, urging him on to meet his every thrust. Bard obliged, pushing his hips against him as much as the position allowed it.

They did not make love, they did not have sex, either – they fucked.

Rutting against each other like the animals in the vast expanses of the forest, guided by an insane desire for the other. Heated gasps fell from their bruised and swollen lips, chasing away the tranquility of Thranduil’s quarters. As much as Bard wished to close his eyes to completely dissolve in the sensation he felt, he found himself unable to; the sight the Elvenking presented simply did not allow it – it never did. And so he watched him, and listened to him.

Under the rhythmic sounds of Thranduil’s cries, Bard heard his own shameless moans every time the elf hit that spot of pleasure inside him. His body torqued and arched under Thranduil’s assault, whilst his hands tore at the elf’s hair.

They were equally rough with the other, yet never selfish in what they did; Bard had never thought that Thranduil would enjoy to feel his teeth against the ivory skin – but he did. The filthy moan falling from the elf’s lips told Bard as much. It was enough encouragement, and he did it again. And again, until the rhythm of Thranduil’s thrusts faltered.

“Am I distracting you?” asked Bard rhetorically. He already knew the answer, which was: yes.

“May I advise you to use your mouth for something more …” Thranduil’s words were interrupted by several shallow gasps when Bard bit down again.

“But – “

“Shut up,” muttered Thranduil under his breath before he kissed him hard, diverting the attention of Bard’s lips for once.

There was a blind understanding between them, an exchange of words with their eyes alone.

What they were doing was primal, stoked by raw lust, without the veneer of civility; savagely and devouring. Once before Bard had wondered if Thranduil behaved as he did because he knew Bard wanted it that way, or if he took what Thranduil was willing to give because it was what the elf desired. He had not found an answer that night so many months ago, he did not find an answer now, either.

In the end, it did not matter too much.

With the devouring kiss the last remains of sanity were erased from Bard’s mind. He circled his arms around Thranduil’s neck, the moment the elf let go of his lips. Bard weaved one hand roughly into the silvery strands to pull him closer towards himself again. And whilst he did, he reveled in the fantasy of what it would feel like to thrust his own cock into the heat of the elf’s body, to fuck him in the same frantic rhythm as Thranduil still fucked him. Bard nearly lost it then, feeling the convulsion around his twitching cock in his mind. His moan was lost amidst the filthy noises Thranduil made against his lips.

After that, Thranduil’s lips trailed idle patterns across Bard’s skin, nibbling at the hollow of his throat, licking him, kissing him, and without warning he sank his teeth into the side of Bard’s neck.

Bard jerked underneath the elf out of surprise and pain, perhaps that was exactly the reaction the elf is waiting for, because Thranduil laughed.

_‘Bastard.’_

In response, Bard scratched his nails down Thranduil’s back, reveling in Thranduil’s look of surprise – there was nothing left of the fair and otherworldly seeming elf anymore. His cheeks were tainted scarlet, long strands of hair clinging to his forehead, falling over his shoulder with every thrust; in fact he looked extraordinarily human in the throes of passion, Bard noticed

Still, the sight was as beautiful as anything could ever be, and Bard found himself reveling in Thranduil’s different beauty.

“Do you trust me?” asked Thranduil, literally out of nowhere.

“I do,” replied Bard, startled. “Why?”

For a prolonged moment as they stared at each other not a single word fell from their lips.

“Well,” began Thranduil, slowing down his thrusts to a maddeningly slow pace, upon which Bard immediately cursed; he had been close already. “Aside from the wax, the thorns and essences of ginger there are other ways to increase the pleasure you feel. However, it requires your trust – and your consent. I would never act against your will.”

Curiosity was visibly spread across Bard’s face. He had no idea of what exactly Thranduil was talking about, yet he felt strangely intrigued. So it had always been – the unknown, danger ensued, sparked an uncontrollable curiosity in him. Yes, he certainly had a liking for dangerous things – in his early years more than when he was responsible for his wife and children.

Bard tried to draw a conclusion from Thranduil’s words but did not come all too far. “I doubt that you would harm me, and therefore I agree to whatever occupies your mind.”

“Indeed,” said Thranduil, smiling. “Harming you is the very last thing on my mind, not when I have waited so many lonely nights for your return.” Bard’s eyes fluttered shut upon those words of flattery.

“Keep your eyes open,” demands Thranduil, softly spoken, yet persisting.

Bard did as he was told.

There was a hunger in Thranduil’s eyes like a feral beast hunting its pray, getting ready to pounce. Upon that, Bard shuddered, awaiting Thranduil’s next move with anticipation and fear alike. It was like the thrill of the chase, drowning out coherency.

Wordlessly, Thranduil readjusted Bard’s legs until one of them rested over his shoulder, allowing him to push inside even deeper.

 _‘Certainly not too bad,’_ thought Bard in silence. One of Thranduil’s large hands enveloped his throat like a collar, pressing against his Adams apple rather uncomfortably.

“What?” asked Bard, eyes now wide. Surely Thranduil could not mean …?

Instead of answering him, Thranduil began to move again inside him, his thrusts hard and relentless. “Do you trust me?” he asked again.

Despite himself Bard answered: “Yes.”

Thranduil’s face was so close to his own that their lips practically touched, his long hair acting like a shielding veil. “Very well,” whispered the elf.

Bard’s words were broken up by his own gaps and filthy noises as the hand around his throat tightened whilst the relentless thrusts persisted. The pounding of his own pulse grew louder in his ears with every moment that passed, and his mind narrowed down to dizziness. He moaned and snapped for breath at the same time, futilely so as Thranduil’s grip was unwavering.

The touch was uncomfortable, strange, bordering on the edges between pain and pleasure; yet it was so eerily intimate. It was subtle, teasing, because it was gradual. When Bard began to feel the lack of oxygen, his fingers clenched and he struggled for breath. Sparks danced at the edge of his vision – bright pink and golden, blue and green, twining and intermingling into a surreal blur.

Bard wanted to gasp, to whimper, to plead. He managed, exactly, none. His fingernails scratched along Thranduil’s back until the Elvenking’s handsome face became a blur, and for a moment Bard doubted his eyes. What strange trick of the elf was this again? There was a golden halo around Thranduil’s head, a luminescence in the air that gave the illusion of flames burning right behind him. After that, Bard’s mind went blank for seconds before he found himself gasping violently for air. The time he was granted for recovery was, however, extraordinarily short, as Thranduil kissed him breathless immediately after, never stopping to fuck him.

Their grunts and filthy moans pierced through the nightly silence like owls’ screeches, the flickering candlelight bathing them in an eerie glow. With the lingering smell of the food on the table and the roses the animalistic smell of sweat and arousal mingled. Thranduil panted above him, thrusting into him hard, bordering on ruthlessness; Bard couldn’t find himself to care, as he clutched to the elf’s shoulders. For the blink of an eye Thranduil brought his hand between them, brushing over Bard’s erection in teasing little strokes – and as swiftly as the touch had come, the hand was gone again and Bard cursed heavily.

“Do not spoil the breath in your lungs,” admonished Thranduil with a rather filthy smirk.

Bard breathed in as much as he could in the few moments he was granted before Thranduil’s hand tightened around his throat once more; by now he knew what to expect – a darkness that swallowed him for seconds before stars exploded across his vision so vividly and surreal he had never seen phosphenes before. Thranduil sank deeper into him than he perhaps had before, stretching him so wonderfully, filling him. It made Bard squirm on his cock, and a whimper tumbled from his lips. Thranduil did not stop, or slow down until Bard thought he could take no more, gasping for air. And then he fucked him, hard, and demanding, and ruthless.

Those needy whimpers and filthy words that spilled so freely over Thranduil’s lips, the raw lust Bard saw in his dark eyes, nearly undid Bard, precome already dripping on his stomach. They moved, existed as one at the heights of pleasure, forgetting everything around them.

Bard’s throat contracted as he tried to swallow, eyes fluttering shut, and for once he just felt: Thranduil’s cock inside him; his own muscles clenching around him; his chest rising and falling against his own; his fingers tightening around his throat. Thranduil – it was solely him. Overwhelming pleasure coursed through Bard before momentarily he spiraled down into darkness again. Bard only faintly heard himself make a deep and hoarse sound against Thranduil’s lips, bucking up against him, snapping for air.

“Fuck.” The word left his bruised lips as a choking rasp, the rest of the words swept from his lips when Thranduil delivered a final thrust. Still catching his breath from the previous assault he came harder than he had come for years, drowning in the waves of pleasure that swept over him with the elf’s name on his lips. Bard did not care if he would be sore for many days, if he would be bruised, marked, so lost in sensation he was.

Thranduil followed him into oblivion shortly after, cheeks tainted scarlet, kissing him demandingly, kissing him breathless once more. Bard’s body went limp in Thranduil’s arms that somehow had managed to sneak under his shoulders, holding him before he rolled off. Both were lying on the ground on their backs, watching the ceiling above them They tried to catch their breaths in exhausted, sweaty heaps until the elf reached over and gave Bard’s arm an affectionate squeeze.

Only moments later, Thranduil rolled onto his side, watching Bard with a smile playing on his lips. Affectionately he let his fingers brush over Bard’s chest, yet again playing with the hair that grew there so numerously. Despite the beauty the Elvenking presented in his rather devastated state, Bard allowed his eyes to fall shut, exhaling softly – he simply felt wonderful, reveling in the beauty of the moment.

“Hannon le,” mumbled Thranduil against the hollow of his throat, with his head now resting on his shoulder.

Despite his exhaustion and the fact that every inch of his body seemed to hurt, his back especially, Bard felt better than he had felt for many, many months. Content and sated; loved.

Thranduil, however, was strangely absent, completely lost in thoughts. “What is it?” asked Bard softly, running his fingers through the elf’s hair.

“Not much,” said Thranduil with a smile. “I merely recalled words I have said a few months ago.”

Of course, Bard’s curiosity was piqued. “Would you mind to share them with me?” He covered Thranduil’s hand with his own, twining their fingers together.

“No, I do not mind at the slightest as they are our both concern. Remember when I said _‘I fear I could love you’_ that night so many months ago?”

Bard nodded. Those words had constantly echoed in his mind whenever he was graced with a few moments to himself.

“What a ridiculous choice of words,” Thranduil continued, and at the same time Bard’s heart sank, yet he did not interrupt the elf. “Fear. What on earth was I thinking? How could I?”

The elf spoke in riddles, and rather to himself than to Bard. Exactly this unnerved him because he couldn’t draw a conclusion out of Thranduil’s words.

“Thranduil,” he said with a heavy sigh. “I know you Elves are overly fond of riddles and flowery speech, I however, prefer plain words and actions. What are you trying to tell me?”

Upon that Thranduil laughed, mirthfully. “Pardon me, I got carried away,” he said, squeezing Bard’s hand tightly, “It was foolish of me to say that I fear to love you, when loving you is simply wonderful.”

Bard’s heart began to race and warmth spread throughout his body. This confession of love was perhaps as much he as he would perhaps ever hear from the Elvenking’s mouth – for him it was enough. “Alas, plain speech,” Thranduil interrupted Bard’s thoughts, “I love you, Bard of Dale, or _Gi melin_ how these words are said in my own tongue.”

What pushed the Elvenking towards such a sentimental confession Bard did not know, nor did he care. The knowledge what Thranduil felt for him was enough, as he felt exactly the same for Mirkwood’s king. There were so many things Bard wished to say, yet not a single one of them would come across his parted lips, taken aback by Thranduil’s confession. He was simply rendered speechless as he looked right into the Elvenking’s shining eyes. Several times he began to mumble, something to match the sentiment. “So do I,” at last he managed to choke out, “I mean, I love you, too.”

After that, Thranduil captured his lips with his own and kissed him, affectionately, a kissed filled with a silent promise, so differently than all the other kissed had been.

“Do you now feel inclined to accept my offer of a comfortable bed?” Bard heard Thranduil asking through the veil of post-orgasmic haze that still surrounded him.

He lifted his head a little and regarded him through half-lidded eyes, considering. He was not yet inclined to let sweet slumber overwhelm him, strangely bursting with energy, but given the look on Thranduil’s face, sleep was the last thing on the Elvenking’s mind.

“I am,” said Bard. “Although before I even think of anything else, I am in desperate need of a shower.”

Thranduil’s smile grew radiant. “What a fortunate coincidence that my bedchamber is linked to my bathrooms - a natural pool being certainly the main attraction of it,” he explained with generosity. “You would not mind if I feel inclined to join you, now would you?”

With an equal smile playing on his lips, Bard shook his head. “Nay.”

“Then come,” said Thranduil, rising to his feet. Languidly and gracefully unfurling he stretched himself before he offered a helping hand to Bard which the man gladly accepted.

The ground wavered beneath Bard’s trembling feet the moment Thranduil let go of his arm, and dizziness overwhelmed him; the entire room seemed to spin around him with the floor suddenly becoming non-existent. For moments the world around him went blank and he spiraled into darkness, falling.

When next he opened his eyes, his vision was still blurry and the first thing he saw was the Elvenking’s fair face. Thranduil’s eyes were narrowed but not in warning, but in genuine concern, looking down at him. It was only then that Bard realized that he was cradled against Thranduil’s chest like a helpless child, being carried along a narrow corridor.

“Apparently you are not used to such treatment,” explained Thranduil, mischief ringing in his voice. “It is about time to change this.”

Bard felt as if he would faint again.  

*****

Later that night, when dawn already began to announce the new day, Bard lay still awake. He sighed softly and turned on his side, looking at Thranduil’s sleeping face. Filtered sunlight fell onto his skin, and once more Bard failed to comprehend that this perhaps would become a new constant in his life; waking up next to the Elvenking. The elf was so beautiful that no matter what he did, he looked radiant, even whilst he slept (with eyes open, something Bard thought he would never become accustomed to, no matter how often he would witness it). Thranduil’s lips were parted slightly in the same way they had been earlier this day when he had regarded Bard. Without thinking, Bard leaned forward and trailed his fingers over Thranduil’s cheekbones, his nose, mapping the outlines of his lips afterwards.

“ _Gi melin_ ,” whispered Bard, and in his sleep, and against Bard’s fingers the Elvenking smiled.

*****

**THE END**

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **_I'm glad to be with you, my lovely readers, here at the end of all things_**  
>  aka:  
> Thank you for your patience, for all your lovely comments and support even during times when this story was more or less on a complete hiatus; thank you for all your encouragement, for letting me know what you enjoyed in each chapter – or not. Writing this story has certainly been a roller-coaster ride in regard to writing it for me, and admittedly there had been times when I had to force myself to sit down and write at least something for it.  
> Alas! Now it is finally complete, and the feeling I have is both joyful (because it IS complete) and awkward, because the fic has been with me for so long .. and now it’s gone?


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